


I made a promise

by stilesstilerstyle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Beads, Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Blindfolds, Bondage, Bottom John, Chastity Device, Cock Rings, Collars, Deepthroating, Drugging, Duct Tape, Fighting, Forced Prostitution, Gags, John fights as always, M/M, Muzzle Kink, Muzzles, Oral Sex, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Past Character Death, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Self-Defense, Sherlock gets off on a fighter, Slavery, Spreader Bars, Stockholm Syndrome, and a family thing, at least along those lines, it's fun, sawhorses, sharing John, shock collar, straitjacket
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:49:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2667548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilesstilerstyle/pseuds/stilesstilerstyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has had a bad day, and he can't keep himself from indulging in the somewhat dubious pleasure of going to a slave-house. But what he gets, is more than he expected or even dared dream of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morals? Who has those these days.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I thought of this and wrote it during school lessons. I know. I'm sick and need help, but that can wait... :D  
> Enjoy. :) Please keep in mind that my native language is not English.
> 
> (Also, I wanted to call the slave-house 'slave-place' as in safe place... But that wouldn't have fit all too well, would it? ^__^)

Sherlock knew about places like this one; in fact, everyone did. He normally didn’t indulge in his basic needs, but after a day like today, after he’d butchered up a huge case, losing multiple innocent civilians in the process, he needed this.

He needed a way to release and free his frustrations. It wasn’t exactly illegal, still, people tended to judge once they found out one was affiliated with them. One of those who did that.

But since Sherlock didn’t really care about anyone’s opinion of him, he walked straight inside.

Moaning, groaning, grunting, whimpering and screaming filled the air. Sherlock took a deep breath, sucking in the sweet smell of fear and anticipation. He walked through the corridor, a guard as well as a merchant accompanying him.

“Mr Holmes. How can we fulfil your needs today?” The merchant looked at him all the while as they were walking along the long wall, only interrupted by doors every three metres.

Sherlock only barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the small sweaty man. He was only afraid that if he didn’t manage to tend to Sherlock’s every little whim, he would be one of the people to be pushed into such a small room like the one’s they were walking past.

Even though Sherlock normally wouldn’t come here, or anywhere similar for that matter, he was well known throughout the business. And feared, all thanks to fat old Mycroft.

He stopped abruptly to glare at the merchant.

“Today I would like a feisty one. One who won’t relent all too fast, I really do hope that you’ve got something like that, otherwise I will leave, not satisfied. At all.”

He held back a grin as he the small man started to quiver under his scrutiny.

“No-normally they’re trained not to fight, but to surrender themselves completely to the c-client.” He shrunk even further when Sherlock’s gaze darkened, and he said in a low rumble: “I’m sure you will fight once I walk out of here to tell my brother about your terrible service.”

The merchant was barely able to speak he trembled so hard. “M-maybe a… one of the newer acquisitions? They… they’re normally n-not used to it and trained yet.” Trying to shield himself with his clipboard he peered at Sherlock, hope shining in his eyes, when Sherlock took a step back and nodded at him. “Show the way, if you would.”

The man scrambled to get going, not wanting to make Sherlock wait any second longer.

Sherlock sneered at the merchant’s back as he strolled behind him. This poor soul wouldn’t become a personal slave if he ever would turn out to fail. He would most likely end up in some kitchen or laundry. Soon too, most likely, from the way Sherlock read the man.

Stopping in front of one of the doors almost at the back of the seemingly endless corridor, the man pointed towards the door and said: “This one came in a week ago, only used once so far.”

Sherlock looked at the merchant, his eyes roaming threateningly over his body. He pulled his gaze away to peer through the glass door. (A security measure, they didn’t want their merchandise to be killed after all. Strangle to unconsciousness? Sure. Beat them bloody? No problem. As long as they lived afterwards.)

A man with dark, short hair was kneeling in the middle of the room, blindfolded and a bit gag wedged between his teeth. Sherlock guessed his age to be somewhere around 23 or 24. The man’s hands must have been tied behind his back, but Sherlock could only see his front. His face looked calm; at least the half that Sherlock was able to see. Bruises adorned the slave’s pale skin. Bruises, which looked like the man had fought.

He looked back at the merchant and said: “Open the door. I want to make sure he’s the thing I want.”

With wide eyes the merchant stuttered: “Of course. Take a-all the t-time you need, sir.”

The guard, who had trotted silently behind them up until now, moved forward and unlocked the door.

Sherlock watched, as the slave tensed when he heard the door open. He hung his head low; a sign of submission. Not what Sherlock wanted right then. Today he felt like a predator, and if one’s prey just willingly rolled over and bared its throat without a fight, it kind of defeated the purpose of the hunt.

But maybe, Sherlock dared to hope, the slave would react differently to touch. Slowly he moved forward, making sure the man heard his approach.

He walked around, relishing the fearful tremble in the man’s hunched shoulders. Coming to a stop in front of the kneeling slave, he reached out his hand to touch his face. The man twitched, but didn’t pull away immediately. Not fast enough. Not good enough. Not defiant enough.

He pulled away his hand, disappointed. The door fell closed behind him.

  
“Next.”

The sweaty man apparently feared for his job as he hurried towards the next door. Sherlock only looked inside for a second and then shook his head. This one hadn’t been used before, but he would rather beg to suck a cock than fight for a smidge of his dignity. Weak. Impatience started to nag at him. He needed this now, not in an hour, now.

They stopped in front of the seventh and also the last door. This better be good. Sherlock glared at the merchant. Of course it wasn’t his fault that none of the slaves had fit Sherlock’s wants, but if this last one didn’t do it for him, he would make sure to get the man sacked at least. He glared at the merchant who seemed to want to melt into one with the floor.

“T-this one c-came in just this morning. Unused.”

Sherlock looked through the glass door. Oh. This was new. The blond man, in his late thirties, who was kneeling in the middle of the room, had been treated differently. Whereas all the other slaves had been only cuffed behind their backs and secured to the floor, (to avoid their standing up) this one had leather straps fixing his pulled back arms to his torso. Much to Sherlock’s fascination, even his thighs had been bound to his calves. He too was wearing a thick, padded blindfold, and his lips were being stretched over the black ball gag filling his mouth. But what intrigued Sherlock the most, was that the naked man’s face seemed restless, his brow was deeply furrowed and his nostrils flared with every heavy breath he pulled down into his lungs.

Sherlock felt how blood rushed to his cock at the sight. He tore his eyes away from the slave, to look at the merchant. (Much less a sight for sore eyes)

The man shook, barely holding on to his clipboard. “We had to restrain him extra, he wouldn’t give in as easily as others. He k-knocked out three of our men before he could be taken down with a tranquilizer. M-military training.”

Sherlock turned his head back to the slave, one side of his mouth quirking up. “I’ll have him.”

Sherlock could see out of the corner of his eye, how the man sagged with obvious relief.

With his hands in his pockets, Sherlock managed to hide his growing erection. Not that it would have mattered, since they would see everything he did to the slave. He didn’t want to look away from the heaving chest, the leather digging into tan skin. The kneeling man looked like he was waiting for something, ready to fight. If only he knew what, or rather who he was waiting for exactly. Sherlock could barely contain a groan as he imagined what the slave would do once the glass door opened. “What’s his name?”

The sweaty man was almost too busy fanning himself, trying to cool down from his scare, to notice that he was the one being spoken to. He barely caught up. “John. John Watson.”

Sherlock smiled. “John.” He let the name roll over his tongue. “Open the door and then leave me.”

“But sir, don’t you want someone to help you reign him in? He’s strong.” Sherlock shot a short glare at the man. “I can manage. Now open this door and then leave.” He hissed the last part of the sentence.

The guard unlocked the door and let Sherlock step through. The detective watched and relished how every single muscle in the slave’s body tensed at the sound of the door opening. Sherlock stepped inside, the door swinging closed behind him, the lock falling into place.

He just stood there for a moment, watching, listening. The soldier clearly knew that there was someone in the room. His chest was rising and falling softly, and Sherlock could now hear how he pulled in deep breaths. Not for one moment did he let his muscles relax, or let his guard down. His ears almost seemed to sharpen, listening for any sound coming from the intruder.

Sherlock had thought today, when he had walked into this building, that he would hold someone down for a quick and satisfying fuck, but this turned out to be much more interesting.

Slowly he took his hands out of his pockets, moving his right to his straining cock. He bit his lip as he palmed himself, his eyes roaming over the bound tight body before him.

Sherlock stood there for about ten minutes. He watched how the bound soldier shifted, little as he could. It was a beautiful sight. A man, a beast so strong and forceful, ready to fight, bound like this. The force was contained trough leather and rubber, held together. A shudder ran through the detective.

The man had been wounded on his left shoulder, but it had faded into a pink scar.

Sherlock knew why he was here. People who committed crimes and were caught became this. Slaves. The prisons had overflown, too many men and women with a criminal past. There were all the different departments, like house slaves, trained to do the laundry and cook. Garden slaves, trained to look after the flowers and sometimes vegetables. Work slaves, trained to do heavy lifting and the sort.

And then there was this sort. Personal slaves. The detective smiled to himself. This one, the soldier, had killed someone. He hadn’t become a house slave, because with this level of a crime, he needed a strong hand. And obviously he wasn’t ugly. Many might think the scar somewhat of a nuisance, but to Sherlock it completed the look of the trapped beast. Wounded, but still able to fight.

Finally Sherlock stepped forward, slowly walking around the kneeling man. John. The slave turned his head, listening intently. Clearly he didn’t like it when someone stood behind him, in his blind spot, so to speak. Sherlock observed the twitch in the pulled back shoulders, he wanted to turn, was used to facing his enemy.

There was a thick leather belt looped around the man’s upper arms, drawing together the elbows, so tight they almost touched. From wrist to elbow there was more leather, pulling, winding, digging into the skin, making it nearly impossible to move. His strong hands were balled into fists.

Sherlock stopped right in front of the blonde. He took a deep breath, sucking in the smell of sweat, adrenaline and just a bit of fear. Fear was delicious, as long as it wasn’t so bad as to paralyse the slave. He wanted them to be present. And this one, Oh wasn’t he ever so present.

Sherlock knew that John was not one to submit easily. This time he groaned. The thought of himself pushing John forward, struggling, was too much to simply hold in. Said slave sucked in a sharp breath at the sound. Sherlock would have loved to see all of John’s face, but even with the blindfold covering his eyes, he could clearly read disgust. Did he think that whoever had entered was jerking off to the sight of him? Many clients didn’t have enough money to do anything else. But Sherlock was definitely not going to be satisfied with a short wank. He wanted more. He wanted all.

The soldier’s breathing was fast, but it quickened even further when Sherlock reached forward and touched John’s cheek. He snapped his head to the side, trying to escape the unwelcome touch. Sherlock pulled his hand back, fascinated by John’s expression. Anyone else might have mistaken it for fear: the quick breathing, the trembling and the deep frown. But Sherlock saw it for what it really was. Anger. Such anger rolled off the soldier in waves, he seethed. It was the most beautiful thing the detective had ever seen.

The soldier didn’t see the hand coming, gripping his jaw like a vice. He tried to turn his head away, wrench himself free, but the little movement provided wouldn’t let him. He thrashed in his tight bonds, grunting, until he couldn’t anymore. He stopped, gulping in huge breaths. His teeth were digging into the rubber of the ball gag. Apparently he knew that he would have to save his strength for what was still to come. Sherlock was sure that if he took out the gag, a waterfall of profanities would rain down on him. He ran his thumb over the soldier’s bottom lip, glistening with saliva that had slipped by the ball.

He let go of John’s jaw, stepping back enough to just watch and observe again. He crouched down, just a few centimetres away from the shorter man.

Wouldn’t those lips look lovely wrapped tight and hot around his cock? If he truly did want that to happen, this man would have to be trained. If you shoved a cock into his mouth without any precautions, you would walk out that door one cock shorter.

Sherlock looked around the room. It was filled with all sorts of restraints, toys and whips, just like all the other rooms. His eyes fell onto what he was looking for. He turned his attention back to the slave before him, who seemed to almost steam with anger. He leant slightly forward, so he was only an inch away from John’s face. He could feel the man’s breath on his skin.

“Hello John Watson. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and today I will fuck you.”

John’s reaction was sudden and instantaneous. He whipped his head forward, cracking his forehead into Sherlock’s nose.

Sherlock stumbled back, coming to a stand. He could feel blood flowing from his nose, down over his lips and tongue.

It was the first time the kneeling man spoke, or at least attempted to. There were lots of garbled sounds and all Sherlock could make out was that John was decidedly disagreeing. Sherlock took a tissue from a box standing in the corner to wipe away the blood. Even blind the soldier had a good aim, but at least his nose wasn’t broken. He looked at the blood that had stained the tissue in his hands. He chuckled darkly, which made John freeze.

“You might think that this makes me want to leave. But it’s quite the opposite. Now I’m absolutely sure you’re the one.”

John’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. For a moment he sat still, but then he began to thrash against the leather keeping him in his position, fruitlessly as Sherlock liked to observe. He cried against the gag, only muffled noises reaching Sherlock’s ears, but it was a beautiful sound.

Sherlock walked to the right hand side of the room, plucking the spider gag he’d previously spotted off the wall.

It was attached to a head harness. Sherlock was still contemplating over the idea if he should take John’s blindfold away, or if he should leave it on. It would be delicious to keep the man guessing about what his assailant looked like.

He walked over to the still fighting man. Tireless, just like Sherlock wished he’d be.

Sherlock decided he wanted to see what John’s eyes looked like with tears welling up in them. He walked behind the soldier, laying down the gag on the nearly sterile floor.

Then he lay both his hands onto John’s shoulders, pushing down, trying to calm him enough so he could remove the blindfold. But instead of calming him, it seemed to have the opposite effect. He tried to shake off Sherlock’s hands, which he didn’t manage. He could barely move, but that didn’t keep him from trying. Sherlock grinned as he removed the blindfold in one quick motion. What colour would his eyes be? Dark and deep? Brown like a glass of whirling whiskey? Or green and wild?

 

The blindfold fell away. Immediately Sherlock walked to stand before John. Wild blue eyes, like the sea in a vicious storm glared up at him. If one hadn’t seen the anger before, it became quite evident right then. Sherlock smiled down at those blue eyes, growing harder than he had been when he’d entered. He slowly crouched down, to get to an eye level with the soldier. His nose had stopped bleeding.

“God, you’re perfect.” He reached out to trace John’s brow, knitted together tightly through his anger. His nostrils flared and he turned his head to the side again, to escape Sherlock’s touch. Pure hatred was written all over John’s face.

“I’ll take that gag out now if you hold still for a second.” He looked intently at John, who slowly turned his head back to glare at Sherlock. But he held still as the detective opened the clasp at the back of his head, then he slowly eased the ball out from between John’s lips.

Sherlock half expected there to be a shout of anger, curses and maybe even a gob of spit flying towards him. But John just moved his probably sore jaw until he could speak. He spoke in a low and threatening voice.

“If you think I’ll suck your cock you’re damned wrong.”

Sherlock stared back into those strong blue eyes. “I didn’t think you would.” He made and effective pause, savouring the short flash of confusion that danced across John’s face.

“But I know that I will fuck your pretty face.” He cocked his head to the side, biting back another smile as John’s mouth shut with a snap and he growled: “Fuck no, you won’t.”

Sherlock stood and walked to John’s back again. He leaned down to pick up the spider gag and to whisper with his deep baritone: “Fuck yes, I will.”

He moved the gag with the harness around so John could see it. The ring in the middle was larger than average, but then again, so was Sherlock. “Open wide.”

John shook his head, pushing back and away from the gag, accidentally against Sherlock. He would have loved to see John’s face in that moment, trapped between two terrible fates. But imagining was almost as good. He could picture the clenched teeth, the sneer, the wide eyes, and the flared nostrils. Sherlock laid his head on John’s left shoulder, so he could see at least part of the gorgeous expression. With his own right shoulder he pressed against John’s neck, holding him in place. He moved the gag closer to John’s lips, which were now sealed over the tightly locked teeth.

He let go of the gag with his right hand and moved it towards John’s jaw. He dug his fingers into the soft flesh of John’s cheeks. Heat radiated off of John, pressed against Sherlock’s chest as he was.

He could see how panic flickered across John’s features. But as much as Sherlock dug his fingers in, he would not relent. Sherlock tried a few more minutes, but it wouldn’t work. John’s jaw was locked. He smiled against John’s ear and said: “Very well. I like a challenge.”

He stood and walked to stand in front of the soldier. John glared up at him; cheeks flushed red with exertion and Sherlock’s finger’s imprints. The anger was back. Maybe a tiny bit of smugness. Sherlock wiped that right off his face with a backhand. Stunned and surprised by the blow, John’s eyes went wide and his jaw slackened by a fraction. But it was only for a moment. Then again his jaw was locked. Another backhand proved futile. John had seen it coming this time; he tensed, but did not give in.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Then he turned abruptly and walked to the door. He looked over his shoulder to the corner of John’s mouth twitch up.

_Oh you think you’ve won. Way off, boy._  He pushed the buzzer by the side of the door and waited. A few seconds later a guard unlocked the door.

“Oh please. Do come in. I am in need of your assistance.” Sherlock hadn’t thought that he’d need help, but if this was what it took to get John to open his mouth, Sherlock would do it.

The guard stepped inside: “What can I help you with, sir?”  He was tall and muscular, and apparently had been taught to follow orders. The guards were used to being called upon whenever a client needed an extra hand or two.

Sherlock looked down at John, who had slipped on a mask of stoicism.

He walked to the left wall, and took down a wide leather band. Handing it to the guard he ordered: “Kneel behind him and loop it around his throat.”

A crack in the mask. Narrowed eyes widened. “Did you really think I’d give up that fast? You don’t know me at all. But you will.” Sherlock crouched down before John and grinned darkly.

The guard had taken up position and the leather lay loosely around John’s neck. Sherlock lifted up the harness. “Last chance John.”

John hissed through clenched teeth: “Fuck you.”

A shiver ran down Sherlock’s spine. Never had anyone been so hard to bend to his will. He loved it.

He sighed and then nodded at the guard, who instantly pulled the leather taut.   
Sherlock felt his cock throb at the sight of John: blue eyes wide, shoulders jerking against the restraints, first trying to pull in breaths through his nose, then his clenched teeth. And finally, when that didn’t work either, his mouth fell open in a last attempt to breathe. Sherlock pushed the ring into John’s mouth. Quickly he pulled back the straps, holding them there and then commanding in a calm voice: “Let go.” The leather loop fell loose and John sucked in a deep breath, coughing.

John’s eyes were pressed shut as he concentrated to regain his breath. Sherlock told the guard to clasp the straps tightly behind John’s head. He did the same with the strap underneath the soldier’s chin.

Sherlock smiled at the way John’s tongue darted through the ring to wet his lips. He relished the ragged breaths that John pulled down into his oxygen-starved lungs.

He thanked the guard and allowed him to leave.

The last strap was pulled across John’s forehead and head, to be joined with the already clasped ones.

He made sure everything sat snug against John’s skull. Finally he stood again, his hand in John’s mussed hair. He looked down at John, the leather band still hanging around his now-reddened neck. He took it away and tossed it somewhere to the side. He wasn’t the one who would have to do the cleaning up afterwards.

He tilted John’s chin up. “You are a mighty piece of work. But I’m sure you’re worth it.” John had recovered his posture, his glare darker than ever before. With his mouth now wide open, Sherlock could see John’s throat muscles convulse. He groaned at the sight. Disgusted, John pulled his chin out of Sherlock’s grasp. He had his head turned to the side, looking anywhere but at Sherlock.

The leather triangle spanned over John’s cheeks and nose, with his mouth held open and his chest sticking out, it was something worth cataloguing away in Sherlock’s mind palace.

He gazed at John’s mouth and how drool started to drip down his chin. Sherlock caught his fingers behind the metal hooks sticking out from the ring in John’s mouth. Like that he pulled, forcing John’s face right front of his straining erection. A flush rose up from John’s neck and face. His blue eyes stared at the bulge and Sherlock saw how he tried to swallow again.

With his fingers hooked behind the bent steel, he had complete control of John’s head movements.

“Look at me John.” Sherlock pulled, so that John could easily glare up at him. With his free hand he started to undo his belt and fly. The kneeling soldier’s eyes blazed with defiance.

Sherlock smiled down at John, whose tongue moved against the steel prying his teeth apart.

The detective pulled his throbbing cock free of its confinement, his eyes not leaving John’s. As soon as Sherlock had freed himself John’s eyes flickered down. Again he swallowed, his throat muscles pulling together out of reflex.

With the hand, which he had freed his cock with, he traced along John’s lips, feeling his hot breath on his fingers. Obviously uncomfortable with a cock so close to his face, John tried to tug his head away, breathing in sharply when Sherlock’s grip wouldn’t budge.

“You see John, I would have gladly shoved my cock down your throat without a gag, but as I’m sure you understand, I’m rather fond of the length it has now. No shortening needed.” He pushed his thumb onto John’s tongue, feeling the texture. Immediately John’s tongue pushed back, duelling with the digit. Sherlock traced over John’s teeth with it. “Your teeth are surely sharp enough to bite through a lot. But thankfully not through steel.” He withdrew his hand to flick against the metal, a clinking resounded.

“Now John, I think I made you a promise.” He took himself in hand and guided John’s head forward. Chuckling at the widening eyes and the groaning coming from John’s throat, he slowly pushed past the ring.

Already he was met with John’s tongue, which was trying fruitlessly to push Sherlock’s cock back out. It felt glorious. He pushed steady further in, John’s tongue now revolting against the underside of Sherlock’s throbbing cock.

He hooked his other hand’s fingers also around the steel protruding from John’s mouth. John’s eyes were shut tightly on moment, flying wide open in the next. His eyes darted down to the cock invading him, then up at Sherlock’s dark and predatory smile. “I promised that I would fuck your mouth.”

John’s head was stuck, though it wasn’t like he didn’t try to pull back, but Sherlock’s grip was iron. He groaned with pleasure he was fully seated in John’s mouth. Sherlock felt how John fought, he tried to twist away and he could feel how his trapped tongue rebelled. As he looked down he could see so many different emotions on John’s face. Despair, disgust and finally, fear.

Before the soldier could start to gag around his cock, he pulled all the way back out.

  
John sucked in deep breaths. _Oh John, you don’t even know half of what I’m going to do to you._

Without any warning whatsoever he pushed his cock back into John’s wide and welcoming mouth, thrusting shallowly, every time grazing the tip of John’s struggling tongue. He didn’t mind there not being laving at his cock, or sucking. The squelching sounds of his cock pistoning in and out of John’s mouth were very satisfying enough. He had been going easy so far, but he wanted to feel John’s throat, hear the sounds he made when he got truly desperate. With the next thrust he went all the way back, his pace building. He roughly shoved into the wet heat engulfing him. With every thrust he hit the back of John’s throat. He grunted, watching how tears started to well up in John’s wide blue eyes. The garbling gagging noises which were pouring from John’s mouth helped Sherlock make a decision he had been contemplating over ever since he had entered that room; he didn’t want anyone else drawing such sounds from this bound soldier.

He watched his cock disappear and reappear out of John’s mouth. Saliva was covering all of his length, and absentmindedly he also registered it dripping down John’s chin and onto his stuck out chest.

No one else would touch his John. With one last thrust he rammed all the way home, bottoming out, he put his hands into John’s blond hair, grabbing it forcefully. A whelp came from John. He looked down, seeing tears running down his tan cheeks, he could feel how John’s throat tightening and loosening around his cock. He held on tight as John gagged, tried to breathe.

Those blue eyes looking up at him, begging, was all it took to push Sherlock over the edge. His hands tightened in John’s hair and he cried out as he spent himself down John’s throat. John, for a lack of other options, swallowed Sherlock’s come.

Sherlock was gasping, the orgasm still rippling through him.

Finally he let go of John’s hair. John immediately leaned back to get Sherlock’s cock out of his mouth. He would have doubled over, if he could have, spit, if he could have. Sherlock knew about that from his previous observations. Instead he watched with rapt attention how the soldier coughed, drool running down his chin, mixed with what little come he hadn’t swallowed.

Sherlock drank in the sight of John. For a moment his glee faltered. He hadn’t broken him, had he? Had he truly been so weak? But as soon as he thought of it, John looked up at Sherlock. Blue eyes hard, promising hatred and infinite anger. He smiled as he cleaned and tucked himself away. Then he stepped forward again, patting John’s soft hair. He had kept his promise. And he intended to keep his next one too.

“I’ll be back John.”

 ****  
  



	2. Satisfactory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while, but I seriously had no idea what to write, my brain felt empty... Also this is unbetad and not britpicked.  
> But now, enjoy this dirty piece of work. :)
> 
> (Thanks for all the wonderful comments and SO MANY kudos!!! :D <3)

Sherlock walked with a skip in his step. He’d not been here for four days, but it had felt like an eternity. Strangely, he had never before craved something else besides the thrill of a chase and the satisfying feeling solving a difficult case. But that had changed now.

 

He remembered how he had walked out the glass door, leaving John coughing and glaring at his back. Immediately after he had made himself very clear, that he wanted no one else to touch John. He wanted him all to himself. And now he did. He owned John. His John.

 

The first time, one day after he’d made his acquaintance with the soldier, he caught himself thinking of John’s lips wrapped tightly around his hot cock, his tongue squirming against him. He’d gotten hard only to the thought of it, and the erection would not go away, so Sherlock decided that it would be best to masturbate. It couldn’t do any harm to fantasize some more either.

 

So he lay down on the sofa, pushing down his pyjama bottoms and pants in one go. He took himself in hand and stroked slowly, with his eyes closed. At first he searched the picture of John kneeling there, with the spider gag tightly lodged between his teeth, the harness pulled taut over his nose and forehead, in his mind palace. He remembered the look of humiliation and shame that John had worn in that exact moment, having been defeated. It had been such a wonderful moment, and Sherlock hummed at the feeling of his own fist moving on his cock.

 

All it took for Sherlock to come the first day were memories from his encounter with John Watson. They were also still enough on the second day.

 

But after that he needed more. He systematically built up a room in his mind palace, all for John. And there he put down notes, ideas and fantasies. He had enough time, since there was no case whatsoever that would have interested him in the slightest.

 

Sherlock was now walking up the stairs to the slave-house once more, he had decided that morning that it was time. He couldn’t think of anything else anymore and he needed more data.

He walked up to the counter, behind which sat an elegantly dressed young woman. She looked up from her computer screen.

 

“Good day sir. Welcome to ‘Satisfactory’. How can I help you?” She looked at Sherlock expectantly, her manicured fingers hovering above the keyboard, ready to look for whatever Sherlock wanted.

 

“Sherlock Holmes. I’m here for John Watson. He’s reserved only for me.” Sherlock didn’t bother to look at her; his gaze was already lingering on the door to the long hallway that would finally lead him to John.

 

He could hear her nails clacking on the keyboard and in less than ten seconds she said: “Yes. Of course Mr Holmes. A guard will bring you to the slave immediately.” Sherlock saw how a bulky man stepped forward, his hands at his sides.

 

Sherlock nodded at the woman behind the counter and then followed the guard through the door. He could feel a strange feeling starting up in his belly. He was excited and impatient. He counted the doors they were passing and he could barely believe that there were 79 until they finally came to stop in front of number 80. John’s room.

 

Sherlock smiled to himself when the door came into view. But the smile faded immediately when Sherlock looked through the glass door and the room was empty. He turned to the guard, a furious look on his sharp face.

 

“Where is he?”, he snarled. The guard looked perplexed, apparently he didn’t know it either. “I’m sorry sir, they must have taken him to cleaning or… or care centre.” The guard took another look through the glass door. “If he was being punished he’d be in here though sir.”

 

Sherlock fumed. This couldn’t be happening. He’d waited long enough, and he wanted the slave now.

 

“How do they get the slaves to cleaning here?”, he asked the guard, supressing a growl. There was no sign of disturbance in the room, not a drop of blood, so they must have taken him to the obligatory cleaning.

 

“Normally they clip a collar around their necks and take them on a leash. But with this one, it’s different. They have to sedate him. When they wanted to clean him the first time he went with them like a little puppy, but I heard that when they shaved him he nearly cut out Jeff’s eye. If you ask me he’s not worth all the extra trouble. It would be easier to just put him down.” The guard looked at Sherlock and immediately knew that he’d said something wrong.

 

Sherlock slammed him against the wall, his forearm pressing against the guard’s throat.

“I did not ask you.” He hissed the words. “It’s none of your concern. Now tell me, how long?”

The guard’s eyes bulged at the pressure cutting off his air, and he rasped: “Sorry s-sir. About an hour usually.”

Sherlock stepped back and brushed off his sleeves, his nose wrinkled, as if he’d just touched something disgusting.

 

An hour. A whole hour. “I will wait.” He motioned for the coughing guard to open the glass door. The guard just nodded and let Sherlock in.

 

Sherlock walked into the room and took off his Belstaff coat. He put it onto a hook at the back of the room and his scarf was also hanged. Then he took a seat on the lonely black chair against the far wall, like this he had the door well in view. He cocked his head to the side as he rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. Then he crossed his right leg over the left and got into his thinking pose.

 

Then he waited. He would not have come for nothing.

 

He waited for 48 minutes, which he used to think about how he would punish John for not being there, when Sherlock had arrived. Of course it wasn’t John’s fault, but Sherlock loved to imagine John’s face when he told him about the ‘punishment’.

He also used the time to look at the different instruments that hung and stood all over the room.

 

Finally after what had felt like hours, they returned with John. The slave was lying on a stretcher, still deeply asleep. Sherlock stood immediately. And apparently the two men had been told about Sherlock’s presence, because they greeted him politely without any signs of surprise.

 

They lowered the stretcher to the sterile floor and stood to look at Sherlock, waiting. Sherlock knew that they wanted to know how to restrain John again.

 

Sherlock looked at the ceiling, and a smirk came to his lips.

 

After the very exact instructions Sherlock had given the men, he looked at the bound form of the soldier. They had given John something, a needle filled with clear liquid, to wake him up, before they left with the stretcher.

 

Sherlock rounded on the stirring slave. The sight of him made Sherlock’s mouth water and his cock twitch.

He had ordered the two men to first turn John onto his stomach and then to bind his arms with black ropes he’d taken from the walls. His wrists were tightly bound to the elbow of the other arm. His whole underarms were coiled in the black silky ropes.

  
Then he told them to hoist John up to a stand and to tie more rope through the hook on the ceiling and to attach it to John’s already bound arms. They made sure to wind the ropes artfully over his chest and stomach to keep him standing, bent forward, but nonetheless on his feet. Well, on his toes was more the word for it. He was balanced in the air. Sherlock instructed them further to put ankle cuffs made of fine black leather onto John, pulling his legs apart they attached each to another ring in the floor.

 

The last thing he requested was to put a stiff collar on him, making his head stick out straight, and he would be barely able to move his head once he woke up. Another reason for the collar was, that Sherlock could look into John’s eyes without having to bend down. Too much work.

 

For the moment he left John’s mouth unobstructed, as he wanted to hear what he had to say once he found out about his new predicament.

 

He stopped for a moment to stand behind John. He licked his lips at the sight of John’s freshly cleaned arsehole. Sherlock knew that John hadn’t been used since he’d been taken in. A shiver went down his spine. He wondered for a brief moment if John had ever had sex with a man before he’d been doomed to become a slave. He’d been in the army after all; there it wasn’t all too uncommon, as there was a severe lack of women. So most men made a compromise in order to get their pleasure from something else than their hands. It didn’t really matter if it was a man or a woman you were driving your cock into, as long as you got to shoot off a load.

 

On the other hand, if you were the one taking the pounding, it was kind of hard to imagine it being a woman. Unless you had that kind of fetish. Sherlock lingered with that thought for a moment. Wouldn’t it be nice to see John humiliated even further, if a woman fucked him with a strap-on? He came back to look at the gorgeous sight in front of him and decided to file that idea away for later in John’s room.

 

John was now coming to, his eyes fluttered, Sherlock observed as he walked to stand in front of John now. Waiting till he was completely aware of what was happening. Sherlock loved the current state of bondage John was in and how it arched his spine.

 

The soldier’s eyes were slowly blinking and Sherlock thought this a good moment to say: “Morning John. Glad you’re joining me.” Immediately John’s eyes flew wide open and he was clearly a hundred per cent awake. John’s mouth flew open in horrified surprise, and his brow knitted tightly together.

 

Sherlock smirked and relished the blush that crept up John’s neck when he realised how beautifully, or terribly in John’s mind, and openly presented his arse was.

 

Finally his gaze came in focus on Sherlock. He tiptoed around, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his arms and shoulders. He opened his mouth to speak: “Why? Why are you doing this? And why me?”

Right to the point. Not even a greeting. Sherlock pouted slightly.  

 

John’s gaze was searching and there was a real question in there.

“Why not take someone who will do anything I want them to, without even a second thought?” Sherlock looked down at John, raising his eyebrows.

 

John nodded, his jaw clenched, and Sherlock could see how he strained not to look at the bulge that had been tenting Sherlock’s trousers ever since he’d watched John getting tied up.

 

Sherlock looked down at John, with something that almost resembled pity. “Because that’s why I chose you. I don’t want a mindless drone sucking my cock. I want someone alive to fight, I want to feel their flesh around me struggle to adjust, to understand. I want someone who won’t give in. And that’s quite exactly the definition of you.” Sherlock smirked at John’s disgusted expression.

 

John shivered and took a moment to collect himself. Sherlock let him, and then John spoke again, his voice trembling with supressed anger: “So all I have to do to make you leave me alone is lie here like a ragdoll?” A hot tear slid over the rim of John’s in anger-narrowed eyes.

 

Sherlock pouted his lips, and then curled them into a cruel smile. “Yes, that would do. But you won’t do that, will you? You might try, but you’re not a person to go down without a fight.” He bent down to whisper into John’s ear: “Then you can tell yourself that you at least tried.” He only just got away from John’s snapping jaw.

  
The detective laughed at the bared teeth of the slave before him. He reached forward and carded his hand through the freshly washed blond strands. Sighing theatrically he said: “You know, pets have to be taught to follow orders.”

 

Sherlock was sure that John would have hanged his head at that, if he could have. But he could move his head neither to the right or left, nor up and down.

 

“You know, the trick is to teach the pet, but not to break it, otherwise, where is the fun?”

And there it was. Sherlock was surprised that it had taken so long for John to finally come to this point of despair.

“You fucking prick! You have no idea what it’s like to be in my position. Let’s see how fucking smug you are once you’re tied up and ready to get pounded into. You fucking fuck! You sick bastard! Son of a bitch!” It went on like this until the tears were streaming freely down John’s cheeks. Sherlock watched with amusement.

He didn’t mind at all, in the end this was the only thing John could still do to try and defend himself.

 

Sherlock was pleased to see that John hadn’t lost any of the fire from last time, if anything he’d gotten only angrier.

Then John said something that made Sherlock’s ears perk up. “I’m not even guilty of murdering that man! I don’t fucking deserve this!”

 

Sherlock had heard enough to let his mind ponder for a while. He took a big red ball gag from the right hand wall.

 

He dangled it in front of John’s face and the stream of profanities stopped pouring from John’s mouth instantly. Sherlock watched how John’s breathing grew quicker, his nostrils flared.

 

“Are you done and ready to listen now?” He looked down at John’s defiant glare. When he didn’t get an answer, he slapped John onto his left cheek with his free hand. “Answer me, slave!”

 

John sneered but said, gritting it out from clenched teeth: “Yes.”

 

“Yes what?” Sherlock lifted his striking hand again, waiting to see if John got the cue.

 

“Yes… sir.” John closed his eyes as he spit the words out.

Sherlock smiled, patted John’s hair and said softly: “Good boy. Now, I’m going to give you your punishment for not being here when I came all the way, only for you.”

 

John’s eyes flew wide open, a look of shocked confusion written on his face: “What? I wasn’t even ab-“ He was cut off by the stinging slap of Sherlock’s hand across his face.

 

“I. Don’t. Care.” Sherlock kept himself from smirking triumphantly. This had turned out exactly how he’d imagined it. John was glaring up at him again; with such hatred that Sherlock was sure he’d fall down dead if looks could kill. Thankfully for him, they couldn’t.

 

“You’re mad!” John muttered under his breath, but Sherlock didn’t miss it. He strode to stand on John’s side, out of his view, and brought down the flat of his palm onto John’s left arse cheek with all the force he could bring up.

 

John shrieked momentarily, but quickly composed himself.

 

“I will now give you thirty blows with my hand, and you will count every single one.” He turned away from John to pick up anal beads he’d picked out while he had been waiting.

“For every blow you miss I will pop one more bead into you and add three blows.” He dangled the line of beads in front of John’s wide eyes. “This might be uncomfortable on one hand, but on the other, if you do miss a few blows on purpose, you get the chance to be prepared before I take you. I'm sure I don't need to tell you the size of my cock.

 

John gulped at the terrible choices put before him. Sherlock cocked his head to adore the nice red handprint the blow from before had caused on John’s soft flesh. His mental camera clicked a picture to keep.

 

“Do you understand John?” Sherlock turned to look at the side of John’s face he could see. His eyes were squeezed shut and he whispered a quiet: “Yes sir.”

 

“Don’t look so frightful, my hand will get its fair share too.” He grinned to himself.

 

Sherlock placed the ball gag onto the table in the back, and then with the anal beads in one hand, and the other outstretched he got ready. He didn’t want to make it easy on John, so the first blow was already as hard as they would get.

 

John had been ready, so there wasn’t as much as a quiet grunt. “One.” Sherlock didn’t give John a break and rained five blows in quick succession. John counted fast, grunting out number four, five and six. Sherlock made sure to hit the same spot over and over, until John missed the first blow.

 

That happened at the 13th. Apparently it really was a number of bad luck for John. Sherlock halted and chuckled darkly at John’s screwed up face. “Well, well. Tell me John, did you let it slip on purpose or on accident?”, he asked as he spurted lube onto the anal beads.

 

“Fuck you.” John tried to look at Sherlock but didn’t manage. “Sir.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Wonderful John, you’re so delightfully surprising.” He gently patted John’s pulled back arm. “Here goes the first.”

 

John gasped as the first and the smallest bead popped into his hole. Sherlock really hoped that John would miss a few more blows so he could watch the bigger beads be swallowed by John’s clenching sphincter.

 

Sherlock licked his lips as he watched how the line of beads now hanged between John’s legs, just along his semi hard cock. The stimulation of his body betrayed John, which made Sherlock smirk with triumph.

He walked to John’s other side to get ready for the next blows. John’s breathing was ragged, and Sherlock could tell that the burning pain that was radiating through his body from his arse and the small bead the moved inside of him whenever he stumbled around on his toes distracted him greatly. Wonderful, that would mean he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the blows all too well.

 

Without a warning Sherlock brought his hand down onto John still pale arse cheek. John was so out of it that he missed this blow too. Sherlock smirked to himself as he popped the next and slightly bigger bead into John. John only grunted in response. So stoic. That would have to be changed.

  
He was ready for the next blow: “Fifteen.” As was he for the seven following. But he once again failed at number 23. Sherlock shook his head, ignoring the sting in his hand. “John, John, John. Bead number three is so happy to find a warm place inside of you, believe me, I envy it. But don’t be disappointed. You’ll still get to feel me.” Sherlock watched how John’s hole reluctantly took number three, his muscles stretching over the silicone.

Sherlock nearly groaned at the sight and he adjusted himself in his trousers. This was getting harder and harder on him.

 

He delivered the next ten blows in quick painful strikes. John managed to keep up, although he was sobbing by blow 33.

 

Sherlock was slightly out of breath, but he enjoyed every second of it. He walked around to John’s front once more. “John. I’m now giving you a choice. Take six more blows or two more beads. I’ll even let you adjust for a few minutes.” He waited patiently, looking down at John’s tear streaked face. He hiccupped small sobs, and Sherlock though that this made a beautiful picture.

 

John’s eyes were darting around, as if he was looking for a way out, another choice, but there wasn’t. And when he looked up at Sherlock his eyes were pleading. Sherlock’s chest swelled.

 

“The beads.” John let his eyes drop, with a shameful look in them. “The beads sir… Please?” Sherlock could see how much strength and willpower it took for John to say those words out loud.

 

“God, I really must let the army know that all it takes to get information from a man is to tie him up and give him a good and hard spanking and something substantial shoved up their arse.” Sherlock looked down at John with a sneer, but he was actually secretly hiding his satisfaction at John’s decision.

 

John’s eyes shot up to look at Sherlock. The anger was nearly tangible. “They’re not sick fucks in the army, like you are!” Sherlock walked to John’s arse to ease two more beads into him. His mouth watered at the sight of John’s entrance expanding around the small globes. John only grunted through clenched teeth, wavering on his toes, swinging lightly back and forth.

 

When Sherlock came to stand in front of John again he said: “So were you fucked gently then?”

 

John’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion: “What?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “In the army, you said they’re not sick fucks in the army. Were you fucked gently then? Or were you the one doing the ‘sticking it in’?” Sherlock was sincerely curious. He wanted to know if John had ever had penetrative sex with another man before or if Sherlock would be his first one. He really hoped for the latter.

 

The soldier looked disgusted at that inquisition. “It’s none of your concern.” The backhand came so quickly John didn’t have time to register it or to close his mouth. He swung in his bonds, a small trickle of blood moving down his chin from his split lip.

 

“Yes it is, John. You are the slave here and don’t forget to call me sir. Or master if you prefer”, Sherlock hissed in a low threatening voice.

 

John blinked rapidly, his tongue darting out to register the damage done. “Now answer me John. And do it honestly. I will know when you’re lying.”

A shiver went through John’s form; his jaw was clenched in fear and anger. “I never had actual anal sex with any of my peers sir.” It was a clear statement. Nearly trained in precision.

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and then asked: “No contact whatsoever?”

 

John kept staring at Sherlock and then said: “None sir. I’m not gay.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a cruel grin. “One of those two is a lie. Would you rather tell me, or should I tell you and then punish you for your incompetence of answering a simple question?”

 

John’s eyes widened fractionally. Sherlock knew that he was trying to understand how Sherlock had known. It was simple, John’s gaze hadn’t wavered. At all, not even a glance to the side. And the answer had come too quickly. He’d practiced it.

 

The bound man took a deep breath and then said slowly: “I did have contact. Sir.” Sherlock waited for John to elaborate, but he didn’t. Did he really have to ask for every single detail?

 

“How?” The question was curt.

 

It took John a few seconds to get over himself to tell Sherlock: “Oral sex sir. And hand jobs.”

 

Sherlock remembered their session from a few days ago. And he reached forward to palm himself through his trousers. He was still hard. Strangely their talk hadn’t impeded his arousal in any way, quite the opposite, it made him crave John more.

 

The twitch in John’s eye didn’t go unnoticed. He was watching Sherlock palm himself. And Sherlock had registered a small change in his breathing. The pulls were coming quicker now, and Sherlock almost smelled the fear on John. Sherlock decided to play the game for a bit longer. He slowly opened his belt and pulled it out of its loops. Then he dropped it on the floor. John’s gaze never left Sherlock’s straining erection. Sherlock smiled at how his teeth were clenched tightly.

He moved to open his flies. Then he opened his trousers to push down his pants. His cock jutted straight out from his body, hot, red and leaking an impressive amount of precome.

John inhaled sharply when the cock was a mere inch from his face. Sherlock had the urge to smear the beading precome over John’s cheek, but it would be safer to stay away from those sharp teeth for now. “Don’t worry John. The fact that I like my cock the way it is hasn’t changed since Monday.”

 

John didn’t have time to sag with relief. “Lucky me you can’t bite with your arsehole.”

 

Sherlock relished the expression that flew across John’s face; anger, fear, disgust and despair all in one. It was delicious, like a dish with different flavours that went beautifully together. Sherlock moved to the back, that’s when John started pleading: “Please! Sir! Mr Holmes!” Oh, so he hadn’t forgotten about his name, must have made an impression then. Sherlock chuckled to himself as he picked up the ball gag he had placed on the table.

 

John must have been thinking that Sherlock was readying himself, as he kept going: “Oh my god! Please! Don’t do this! I never… I don’t deserve to be here! Please!” Sherlock could hear the panicky hitches in John’s breath.

 

Sherlock was glad that John was still exclaiming the unfairness of his situation when Sherlock approached from the side, in John’s blind spot. He didn’t feel like calling for help this time. With a movement as quick as a striking snake’s he lunged forward and pushed the gag into John’s mouth, his protests turning into unintelligible cries.  
Sherlock fastened the clasp tightly on the back of John’s head.

 

John screamed into the gag, letting go of all his previously preciously kept dignity. He screamed so hard it must have hurt his lungs. Sherlock only tutted. He ran his hands along John’s arms and back, feeling John’s thrashing underneath his fingertips. The fear lay so thick in the air now, that Sherlock could dip his fingers into it like warm honey. He hummed to himself, ignoring the screams that faded into whimpers and silent sobs.

He concentrated fully onto the beads that were still stretching John’s hole. He slowly pulled on the end, watching with rapt fascination how all five slipped out of John’s body with a soft squelch. John only groaned at the feeling. He knew that the inevitable was getting closer by the second.

 

He threw them on the floor by his side, not paying them any mind anymore. He looked down at John’s hole, the muscles fluttering, trying to close up again. Sherlock pushed in three fingers at once, the slick heat surrounding them. Just this already felt divine, what must it feel like to push his cock into the virgin hole? He groaned when John clenched around his fingers, desperately trying to keep them out. Sherlock pushed in lazily with one hand, the other was stroking his cock in the same slow rhythm. Sherlock pulled his fingers out and there was sufficiently lube coating them. He pushed his trousers down further and then lined himself up with John’s hole, listening how John stopped sobbing immediately when he felt Sherlock’s cock nudge against his entrance. He was holding his breath, and so was Sherlock. He watched, a small dreamy smile on his lips as he pushed himself into the hot and wet tightness. He savoured the sight of himself disappearing inch after inch inside of John. When he touched John’s arse with his thighs, he sighed with pleasure.

 

John, who must have held his breath all the while, now sucked in a deep breath, letting out a whimper.

 

Sherlock dug his fingers into the soft and still hot flesh of John’s arse cheeks. The redness hadn’t faded yet, and Sherlock admired the sight of his cock engorged by John’s arse, surrounded by the reddened and abused skin of his voluptuous cheeks.

 

He stayed like this a few more moments and then he pulled back and thrust back in harshly, hearing how John cried out. He groaned at the feeling of John clenching around him, the unwelcome intrusion posing a clear threat to his body. Sherlock started fucking John slowly, all the time watching, observing himself disappear in John’s body. When he had enough of just looking, he started to concentrate on the feeling part. His pace got faster with every push, and Sherlock could vaguely feel John’s rapidly beating heart against his throbbing cock. He groaned, as did John, but they both did for completely different reasons. John’s body was shaking and trembling with effort. Even if he tried to imagine being somewhere completely else, Sherlock wouldn’t let him.

  
His fast and punishing pace, as well as his fingers digging into John’s hips drowned out any form of thought that wasn’t directed at feeling Sherlock’s cock moving inside of him.

 

Sherlock would have smiled, if he weren’t too busy pulling in ragged breaths. He could see how sweat had started to run down John’s sides, and he couldn’t resist tasting it.

 

With the saltiness of John’s sweat on his lips and his eyes tightly shut, he could hear the slap of skin on skin, the cut off sobs and keens coming from John’s throat. Sherlock wondered if John had preferred having Sherlock’s cock in his mouth. He would ask him sometime.

 

Sherlock could feel heat pooling in his belly, sweet and demanding, impatient. He grabbed John’s hips tighter, drawing a muffled cry from John as Sherlock snapped his own hips forward, sharp and painful, pleasure swapping over the edge. He needed to tip it over spill it and so he did with the next three thrusts he came, growling, digging his nails into John’s bruised skin.

 

The white-hot pleasure rippled through him, all the way up his spine and back down again as he emptied himself into John. He heard John whimper. Thick sobs moved past the gag in his mouth.

 

It took Sherlock a few moments to regain his stability; he had been leaning completely on John. He hissed as he pulled his cock out, watching how there were white strands of come connecting him to John’s gaping hole. His mental camera clicked once again. With a finger he pushed his own come back in, as it threatened to run down John’s thigh. Sherlock quickly found a plug and pushed it into John’s sore and red hole. He wanted to keep his come nice and warm and slick inside of John.

 

John was whimpering quietly, interrupted by a sob now and then.

 

Sherlock zipped himself up after he’d cleaned himself. He rolled down the sleeves of his white and untarnished shirt and he took his coat and scarf off the hook. He picked up his belt from the floor and then he stood in front of John, who had his eyes closed, his brow furrowed, his cheeks streaked with tears, still flowing freely. Sherlock leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of John’s mouth. The gag remained in place.

 

The promise of his return went unspoken as Sherlock left through the glass door. They both knew that he would come back, sooner rather than later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. SORRY. I'M SO SORRY. Poor John.
> 
> Comments and Kudos are appreciated immensely. :)
> 
> (If someone would like to beta, let me know!)


	3. Give it time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long, but Christmas and New Years have been a busy and difficult time for me. 
> 
> Thank A THOUSAND TIMES to the best beta, Milarca!!! :D

Waking up over and over in this cell was taking its toll on John’s sanity. It wasn’t just the captivity, it was the complete restriction of movement at all times. He missed walking, running, moving.

 

He had tried talking to the guards, telling them that he would go with them to get cleaned willingly from now on; it was humiliating to get tranquilized every time, and who knew what they were doing to him while he was asleep. The thought sent a shudder through him. He now regretted fighting them the first time, trying to escape had been stupid. And even though he was willing to change his behaviour, to obey, it was hard to communicate it with a ball gag in your mouth.

 

After today’s cleaning, John had woken up, still in the same cell, but it was different from the other times. Normally they would tie him down on his knees, with a blindfold and a ball gag. Today he was standing up, his arms stretched above his head, painfully pulling on his shoulders. When he looked down he could see that his legs were being pushed apart by some sort of spreader bar.

 

He had learned to ignore his constant nudity; it had become part of what he was, who he was.

 

Suddenly a jolt went through him, pleasure rippling up his spine and a pleasant tingling in his lower belly. A moan made its way up his throat, but it was strangely muffled. For once his lips weren’t stretching over a ball, or a bit; this time he could feel a ball completely in his mouth and he felt tape over his lips, wrapped around his head. The realization made him panic; he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to  breathe or that the ball would slide back into his throat and suffocate him.

 

His breathing grew quicker and he could hear his heart beat loudly in his ears. His eyes were shut tightly and he tried to calm himself, to slow his breathing. But none of these things worked. The thing that snapped him out of his panic was another pleasant jolt that rumbled through him.

 

Shock made him forget about the gag immediately. He looked down, this time to take a look at his penis, which to his own surprise stood proudly erect from his groin. His brow furrowed.

 

_What the hell?_

 

And then he saw it. A black ring was squeezing the base of his cock; it was tight and secure. John recognized a cock ring when he saw it, but this wouldn’t give him pleasure, so why…

 

The ring pulsed around John’s erection and he threw his head back, moaning against the tape over his lips and the ball on his tongue, his eyes tightly shut. He felt the ring vibrate against the sensitive flesh of his cock and balls. He was trembling now, and when the pulsing finally stopped he slowly opened his eyes to look down again.

 

He was breathing hard and he felt his chest heaving.

 

What was happening? Why was he tied up like this, wearing some sort of pleasure ring? What was different? And then it hit him.

 

The only time he’d woken up from cleaning in a different position was when _he_ had been here. Frantically John tried to look around, to see the rest of the room, to make sure he was alone. He was flailing in his bonds, trying to see behind him. The ring started to vibrate again, and forced him to stand still on his feet again. He was almost certain that he was alone.

 

He let out a long breath of relief and pleasure.

 

It had been a week since he had been here. John closed his eyes with the subsiding pleasure, thinking back.

 

When that man had first entered his room, John hadn’t known what was going to happen. There had been others, looking at him, touching him, but none of them had wanted him after his clear lack of willingness to cooperate. They had all left, without even taking his blindfold off. Until he entered.

 

John had been so certain that he too would leave, not wanting someone so angry and ready to fight.

 

He had been wrong.

 

He remembered the man’s voice, his touch and most of all his eyes. The coldness in those silver eyes scared John, but when there was undeniable black pleasure mixing with the silver, he was truly afraid for his life.

 

What the man had done to him, had made him do, was something John would never forget. He had tried everything to throw the man off, to make him leave him alone. He had fought as much as he could, refused when he got the chance, and yet the man found a way to bend him to his will.

 

John had rarely felt so humiliated and violated in his entire life.

 

And then he had returned. Again he took complete control of John. Body and mind. He made him talk, admit things.

 

He had hurt him and made him feel good. What stuck in John’s head from their second meeting though, was not the spanking, not the anal beads.

 

It was that John had begged. He had cried and begged the man not to do what he did. To stop, to show mercy. And the man hadn’t even listened. Instead he’d shoved a gag into his mouth and taken him in a way nobody ever had.

 

And through the sobbing and crying, John had had these few seconds of pleasure. And an avalanche of disgust washing over him when it was over. He remembered the gentle kiss and the wordless promise of return.

 

When they came to release him he hadn’t fought, he could barely stop sobbing, and for one night they left him almost unrestrained, except for a thick collar encircling his neck. He’d slept on the hard floor, curled up in a ball, cradling his body.

 

The morning after had set his determination in stone. He was going to get out of this, he would find a way.

 

He now knew it was foolish to think that the whip he tried to use as a garotte in a hostage situation would work as an exit. As soon as he’d gotten one of the guards in a chokehold, the jolt of electricity had paralysed his muscles and made him crumple to the floor. He had tasted blood in his mouth as he glared up at the guards, who had quickly taken to  restraining him, making his struggle fruitless.

 

He had known that he’d gambled away all his chances on rewards or easing of the rules. To his surprise they took him out of his cell the next day. Though he was wearing the same collar from the day before, which was now a part of his attire. The led him through the facility, blindfolded, tight grips on his tied arms. He tried asking what they were doing, worried they might deem him too much trouble and end him.

 

They didn’t answer any of his questions and only took his blindfold off when he was chained to a treadmill. They explained that he was supposed to run, and he did, very happy to oblige. The strain in his muscles felt amazing, and especially after such a long time of sitting still and being kept in place, it was heavenly. They wouldn’t answer why they let him use the different training machines in the huge room. And he didn’t really mind, the pleasant ache in his muscles becoming his favourite time of the day. Other than his time training they still kept him under sharp observation, and every time after training they would immediately tranquilize him and get him cleaned.

 

He’d gotten used to the new routine, and he wasn’t ungrateful for the change. He’d wanted to ask if he could be led to cleaning without being sedated every time, but one day before he'd had the chance, he'd been working out in the gym, and the guards had been taunting him as they usually did, saying things like all he was good for was to take a good thick cock in all his holes and that he should do as he was told. And he hadn't been able to stop himself from calling them brainless cock-sucking assholes.

Unfortunately and stupidly of him this had been when he was lifting weights, and of course the collar was activated, one of the guards shocking him, which made him drop one of the weights on his foot for his words. So there went any hope of gaining any favours from them in the near future.

And now he was here, standing in his cell, another tendril of pleasure winding its way through his body. He really hoped that this was their way of punishing him for what he’d said to them.

 

At first he didn’t understand why this would be a punishment, but after an hour of enduring seemingly endless waves of vibrations around his cock, it was definite torture. He couldn’t come through the squeezing pressure of the ring, and he was so sensitive, trembling from head to toe and so close to crying. He’d dared look up at his reflection in the glass door a few times; he looked debauched and pathetic. The head of his cock was glistening with precome, which was dripping to the floor between his legs and forming a small puddle. He was short of breath, and ready to beg to either come or to be released of the torture device.

 

And just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, the door opened and _he_ entered. John got ready to glare, to steady himself, to seem as strong as ever. He couldn’t seem weak. Not now, not ever in front of that man.

 

As soon as the man’s eyes found his, they never left his body. Roaming, observing, scrutinizing every inch. John managed to keep his brow knitted, and his look scalding, but he couldn’t keep himself from trembling.

 

His shoulders and arms ached, and he felt vulnerable once again, so strongly that he just wanted to curl up, in a corner, in a warm blanket. But that wouldn’t happen. He was here in that moment, standing a naked and trembling mess, just waiting for the next wave of pleasure-pain to roll through him and shatter his defences.

 

The man stepped into the room, the glass door, in which John had just moments before seen himself, the way he looked, swinging closed behind him. He glared best he could, refraining from the urge to look down and see his red and jutting erection.

 

What John hated most about the man, was that he was not predictable in the slightest. He never did what one would expect him to do. John didn’t know him well enough yet to know what to expect, but he hoped and prayed that he never would know him that well.  

 

“Did they put the ball in your mouth as I instructed them?” The man’s baritone sounded through the otherwise silent room. Only John’s breathing was audible. The first question he asked. John didn’t make a sound, he only glared, and was immensely grateful that the vibrations had stopped for the moment, letting him be strong.

 

The man stepped closer, lifting his hand up to capture John’s chin in a tight grip. “Did they?” The quicksilver, icy eyes stared right down into John’s own. When Sherlock started to trace his lips through the tape, disgust roiled up in John’s stomach.

 

The grip tightened when John didn’t make a move to answer. He only stared back, and quirked an eyebrow, hoping the man would understand he was trying to say something like: “Why don’t you take away the tape and check for yourself?”

 

Without a warning the man pinched John’s nipple, sharply. As pain shot through John, he shouted out behind the gag, but all that was audible was a muffled whimper. “So they did. Good for them, they can keep their jobs.”

John’s eyes had briefly closed when Sherlock had pinched him, but now his glare was back on Sherlock, sharp as ever. His nipple was throbbing dully.

 

He tried to remember the man’s name, because John was right now starting a list of people he was going to kill once he got out of this. The man had introduced himself. A strange name, not common at all; Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Remember John, it’s no use to disobey; all that will provoke is pain for you.” He patted John’s cheek and once again let his thumb trace the bumps of John’s trapped lips. John felt it was a gesture, which resembled the caress of a weapon that had been rendered useless.

 

“Do you know what you look like right now?” Sherlock’s voice dropped into something like a growl. His eyes darkened with arousal and lust. John did know; he’d seen himself. He looked pathetic.

 

“You look beautiful. So dangerous, but contained.” A grin played across his face. “I would take a picture of you right now, with that black tape across your lips and your arms pulled above your head. Your legs spread obscenely wide, and that cock ring squeezing you so firmly.”

 

John felt flayed in front of Sherlock. The way he had described John went deeper than seeing himself in this condition. His skin crawled with the thought of that man taking a picture, and then doing with it whatever he wanted.

 

He felt a furious flush creep up his neck and he steeled himself. But no phone appeared, no flash blinded him.

 

“But I won’t, because it’s already seared into my brain. And the thought of someone else ever seeing you like this, even by accident, makes me furious.” Sherlock’s eyes were almost black now and possessiveness almost streamed from his pores. John’s stomach turned. In this man’s eyes, John belonged to him, body and mind. And there was nothing John could do about it.

Sherlock sneered. “Unfortunately I can’t keep them from seeing you like this, when they prepare you. But it’s their job, and they’d better not think of doing something to you. Good or bad. Both are my privilege.”

 

John’s heart beat faster than he could keep up with. He simply stared back at the stranger, who had already seen more, taken more of him, than anyone ever had.

 

The moment was broken when John suddenly moaned with pleasure and pain at the same time. His eyes fell shut, and for the first time that day he couldn’t keep his glare up. He was consumed by the sensation that flooded his body. It was as if a phantom lover was sucking his cock, torturously slow. Abruptly it stopped again. He found himself panting for breath, his chest heaving.

 

Sherlock was looking at him, his eyes raking across his body and they came to a halt on John’s leaking cock. A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Oh.”

 

He stepped closer to get a better look at the ring. His breathing went slightly ragged as he spoke: “How long did they leave you like this?”

 

John would have loved to be able to ignore the fact that Sherlock’s pants were now bulging, where before they had been lying nicely and loosely tailored over his crotch.

He swallowed and stared at the man, too exhausted to glare, only giving a weak irritated look.

 

Sherlock’s lips were slightly parted; he was breathing rapidly, staring at John for a few more seconds, before he turned swiftly, taking off his billowing coat and blue scarf and hanging them by the door.

 

John gulped. It had started once again, for the third time in his life. When Sherlock had his back turned, his eyes flitting over the wall with the toys instead of John’s body, John took a moment to swallow down his despair.

 

Sherlock came to stand behind him. John hadn’t seen if or what he’d taken from the wall. His skin crawled as Sherlock grabbed his right hip. To John’s surprise, and disgust, he could feel Sherlock’s breath at the small of his back. His eyes went wide and he barely choked back a shout of protest.

 

Probing fingers were kneading and the pulling his arse cheeks apart. John wanted to see what the hell the man was doing, panic starting to well up inside of him. He didn’t want to be fucked again, ever. Not by a toy, and not a cock.

 

At least not this man’s cock.

 

He tried to turn his head enough to see what was going on, but the way his arms were held, he had no chance of seeing anything that lay behind him.

 

Right when the next wave of pleasure rolled through him, the ring squeezing and vibrating around the base of his cock, the long fingers, now suddenly slick, started to push inside of him. He moaned involuntarily, his eyes falling shut once again, he thought he could hear the vibrations, and even how another drop of precome fell to the floor.

 

He had lost control of his body, and so the finger slipped in much too easily for John’s comfort, and before the vibrations stopped again (it was a long one this time), there were two fingers scissoring and wriggling inside of him.

 

As soon as the vibrations stopped, John felt nothing besides those fingers inside him and the hand holding firmly onto his hip. He tried standing on tiptoe, anything to escape those fingers, but the grip was firm, and a grunt of frustration escaped John’s throat.

He wanted to curse at Sherlock, telling him to get the fuck away from him, to go fuck himself. But the way he was gagged, there was no way he could. He couldn’t even glare at the man, not being able to look at him.

 

And when the next finger joined the two already pumping ones, he hung his head in defeat.

 

For a second he thought the ring had been turned on again, but with a jolt of surprise he realized that those fingers inside of him had brushed against his prostate. It was a lot different from feeling his own fingers inside of him. And he hated himself when he moaned at the sensation and pushed back against those long digits, craving more.

 

He barely registered the dark chuckle when another jolt of pleasure rolled up his spine, making the roots of his teeth tingle.

 

To deny that the man was skilled with his hands would have been a greater lie than to say that John wasn’t enjoying this.

 

He shook his head, trying to get some sense back into his blood-deprived brain. He should not, must not like this. But _oh god, is this good._

 

The last two sessions had seemed to be all about Sherlock, all about getting him pleasure, but this time the man seemed to aim at getting John to feel something nice for a change. Why would he do that? Why would he want to make John feel good?

 

He whimpered when the fingers were drawn back and out of his body, and he nearly sighed with relief when something else was pushed inside of him again, but it wasn’t fingers this time, and John knew that when it slipped deep into him and came to an abrupt stop, that a plug had been used.

 

The plug was just slightly too short to brush against his prostate, and now that the sensations of pleasure had stopped, and the feeling of something lodged inside of him became all the more clear. It didn’t hurt, but it was deeply uncomfortable. As his mind cleared a bit once more, he hated himself.

 

More than he ever had in his entire life. He had moaned and whimpered for more stimulation. He blinked, shocked by his own behaviour.

 

He gulped, seeing Sherlock’s smug face in front of his own once again. Immediately his brow knitted together. This man was mad, crazy and amazing with his fingers. John blinked confusedly at his own thought.

 

_What is wrong with me?_

 

“You’re a little slut for my fingers, aren’t you?” He had wiped his hands clean, and he wriggled them in front of John’s face.

 

John wrinkled his nose in disgust, but he couldn’t take his eyes off those long fingers. They were elegant and could certainly do a lot more things than finger a person into oblivion. Before John could kick himself mentally for thinking that, Sherlock spoke: “I play the violin. That’s certainly got to do with the dexterity of my hands.” His eyes were dark, as was his smile.

 

Then his brow quirked and he lifted his other hand into John’s view. A small black apparatus lay flat in his palm. “From my calculations, the next round should come round right about… now.” And with his last word it did come, and at the same time Sherlock pressed a button on the small black box, and the plug in his arse sprung to life.

 

John cried out with the entire stimulus that now flooded his body. It was too much, his cock being squeezed and milking precome from his body, the plug brushing and vibrating against his prostate. His knees buckled and he hung just by his arms, trying to keep the whimpers, moans, and cries of pleasure back was useless and futile.

 

What Sherlock said next would later surprise John that he’d even comprehended it.

 

His lips brushed against John’s ear, his whole body trembling so violently that Sherlock had to grab his neck to keep him in place enough that John would be able to hear him.

 

“You said you were innocent. I know you are.” A moan much louder than the others, collided with the tape across John’s mouth.

 

“And I don’t care.”

 

John’s eyes flew wide open as he heard those words, and at the same moment Sherlock pulled the ring away from John’s throbbing cock and he came, harder than he ever had.

 

* * *

 

**Afghanistan - Two Years Ago**

John chuckled. “I’m not that great of a doctor. I only stitched you up.” He looked up at the man he’d been playing cards with just a moment before. They’d stopped now, talking seeming more important. There was no denying that he found Sebastian Moran attractive. With his strong jaw and piercingly green eyes, he was strikingly handsome. And his army-trained body was only an added bonus.

 

“You gave me exactly what I needed to get back on my feet, doc.” Moran winked at him, leaning back against the one of the crates that had been stacked high up all around them. They came to this place whenever they wanted to get away from the chaos that was all around them in Afghanistan.

 

John blushed at the memory of himself giving the colonel a blowjob right after he’d stitched up his bleeding knife wound on the left side of his face. That now lay a few days back, and the stitched wound looked like it was healing nicely.

 

He smiled and chuckled, his face hot. He rubbed his neck he looked at the man sitting across from him. “Well, I only gave you what was necessary to get you to heal again.”

In hindsight, it had been a foolish thing to do. And John wouldn’t do it again. He’d only done it, because a huge mission had stood in front of them right then, and John was almost sure they were all going to die, and he didn’t want to go without having taken the chance of feeling some closeness one last time. Almost through a miracle he’d survived. And now he was facing the choice of repeating the foolish deed, or to leave it behind and be done with it. He chose the latter.

He hoped Seb wouldn’t get angry or be offended.

 

The game of cards was completely forgotten. Sebastian stared at John with hunger in his eyes, and John knew that Seb was expecting to repeat the thing from last time, or to even go further.

 

John cleared his throat and spoke, weary, but calm: “Seb, I really enjoyed what we did…” Sebastian didn’t let him finish: “Oh god, me too John. I mean seeing your hot mouth wrapped around my cock like that… Damn, that was so fucking hot.”

 

John licked his lips and furrowed his brow: “Yeah, um. It was hot, for me too. But it will stay with that one time.” He took a deep breath, trying to assess what Sebastian was thinking; he looked confused and almost irritated.

 

“Come on, doc, you can’t make me hot and then just stop. That’s not really fair, is it?” Seb sounded disappointed and a bit angry. John sensed the danger.

 

He abruptly stood, looking down at Seb, clenching his fists, and steeling himself, he had to get back to the troupe. “That’s my decision Seb, and nothing you say is going to change that.” He moved to turn around and walk away, when he felt both of Seb’s hands on his cheeks, holding him firmly, and then his hot and rough lips pressing against his own.

 

He wrenched out of the tight hold. “Stop Seb! I told you!” He took a step back.

 

Seb’s eyes darkened dangerously. “You were leading me on.” When he stepped closer, John moved back, knowing that it was time to run. He was strong, he had experience in battle, but Moran was stronger and faster. And most of all, better at the fight.

 

John turned as fast as he could, and he started to run, but before he got two steps, he felt Moran’s arm around his neck pulling him back, flush against his chest. His other hand was firmly over John’s mouth, keeping his scream for help muffled. John’s eyes were wide in panic, and he couldn’t think, and he didn’t when his hand moved to the gun holster at his side, only to realize that his gun was safely tucked away under his cot in his tent.

 

He tried to push back, using his elbow to get Moran into the ribs. But he had no leverage whatsoever. Moran pulled him back, throwing him onto the ground. All the air was knocked out of his lungs. As he lay on the ground, struggling to breathe, he watched how Moran pulled the belt out of the loops of his trousers in one swift movement. He straddled John swiftly, pushing the hard leather between John’s lips and teeth, creating a gag.

 

He secured the belt tightly, buckling it around the back of John’s head. It cut into the corners of John’s mouth. Just when John found a way to breathe again, Moran started to pull John’s shirt out of his trousers. Then he flipped John onto his belly, as if he was a ragdoll. A hand on his neck, pushing John’s face into the dirt kept him from standing.

 

He hadn’t even gotten a chance to beg Seb to stop. As he felt his hips being lifted, and one hand starting to aggressively pull on his trousers, he reacted on instinct. He remembered the gun in his ankle holster. He’d worn it ever since he’d found himself confronted by an enemy, without his gun. Then someone had come to his aid, saving his live. Hazily John remembered that it had been Moran.

 

When Seb took his second hand away from John’s neck to help getting the tight belt, keeping John’s trousers on, out of it’s loops, John moved quickly. He arched his body, pulling the gun out of the holster with practiced ease, and he turned onto his back, flicking off the safety, staring at Moran.

 

Seb reacted quickly, throwing himself onto John, turning his wrist away. In the last moment John managed to fire.

 

A loud crack sounded through the air, and John felt hot blood splatter across his face and neck. Moran’s lifeless body went limp on John’s.

 

John didn’t wait a second longer. He immediately pushed Seb away from him, standing up. With trembling hands, he flicked the safety back on, and got to work on the belt cutting into his skin. Finally he got it off and threw it onto the ground. He coughed. He was shaking.

 

He took one of the crates as support, as he doubled over, emptying his stomach of its contents.

 

Moran was dead, and his blood was oozing from a wound in his forehead, staining the sandy ground red. John walked over to the body, with weak and wobbly knees. He sunk down, not being able to hold himself upright anymore. The gun was still in his hand, warm from the bullet leaving the chamber of the small calibre pistol at 315 metres per second.

 

He reached out to touch Seb’s face, the face of a friend. Or so he had thought. But when he heard shouts and footsteps he stood abruptly, lifting his hand with the gun out of instinct. He saw three of his peers standing there, between the crates, looking at him with shock on their faces, and then their eyes went to the limp body lying beside him and then they flicked back to John’s raised hand, holding the gun.

 

They wouldn’t let him explain, he wanted to so badly, but when he felt a bullet piercing his shoulder and exploding in pain, causing him to drop his weapon, he could not speak. All he felt was pain and all he saw red. And then black.

 

* * *

 

_“You said you were innocent. I know you are.”_

 

For a moment John had thought, believed, that he was going to get out, was going to be free.

 

_“And I don’t care.”_

 

When John finally was done with coming all over the floor, flailing in his bonds from an orgasm so intense he thought he could taste it and feel his bones creak, he went limp in his bonds. With drooping eyelids, he stared at the floor. Feeling empty, exhausted and so incredibly betrayed he couldn’t bring himself to see the self-satisfied grin on Sherlock’s face. He was sure that his lip would have trembled, if it hadn’t been taped securely in place, not being able to move it a millimetre. He felt tears well up in his eyes, and he thought about how he’d cried every time that man had entered his room. Was that sick bastard making a game of it?

 

When a hand lifted his chin up, he didn’t resist. He stared back at the man, feeling weak and tired, and probably looking it too. A tear rolled down his cheek.

 

“Isn’t it ironic? You killing someone, so you don’t get raped. And then you land here.” His voice was so low, that John barely heard it.

John looked into those grey eyes, which normally were so cold and calculating. For the first time John saw something different. But it disappeared so quickly, that John wasn’t sure he’d really seen it.

 

He dully registered the throbbing pain in his shoulders, from the strain he was putting on them by hanging loosely in his bonds. He didn’t care.

 

Hearing his own sob muffled so harshly was strange, and the knowledge of why it sounded so differently elicited another.

 

Sherlock leaned in, kissing each of John’s wet cheeks softly, still holding firmly but gently onto his jaw. When he leaned back again, he smiled, almost sadly, and said: “That’s just my luck.”

**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo? What do you think? John doesn't deserve any of this... But wellll. :D So sorry, gotta do what makes me happy. 
> 
> Any favourite moments, scenes? :D Let me know, comments make me the happiest, and they've often made my day. :)


	4. Missing what was slightly better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooooo, I'm really really rEALLY SORRY that this took so long, but I had real life troubles, and there was this stupid thing on tumblr that said that non-con fanfic was evil... *rolls eyes*
> 
> So this is my reply to that. XD
> 
> Thanks so much to the best beta ever, Milarca. <333
> 
> Enjoy my friends. <3

The glass door had opened so many times already that he didn’t bother looking up anymore.

When he was in his usual position on his knees when it opened there was nothing to worry about, since it was always the guards to take him to get cleaned, to exercise, or to bring his food. He had gotten used to the rough hands unchaining him from the floor and taking him out.

 

Today wasn’t supposed to be any different. He heard the door open, several men come in, and the door close. He waited for the clinking of chain behind him, for the hands on his upper arms. But they didn’t come. After a minute or two he started to lose his calm. Who was in the room with him? They weren’t guards apparently, since they weren’t doing anything the guards usually did. And staring at slaves certainly wasn’t in their job description.

 

He gulped around the ball gag in his mouth, shifting just slightly in his ever so tight restraints. Lifting his chin he tensed his muscles, preparing himself mentally for whatever might come. He was pretty sure that Sherlock had returned. But why didn’t he make the guards put him in position beforehand? Why hadn’t they drugged him to make it easier? Did he want to watch him fight?

 

The mere thought made John growl involuntarily. He dug his teeth into the silicone in his mouth, and waited, all of him ready for whatever Sherlock had planned to put him through today.

 

Nothing happened for a few more minutes, in which utter silence was predominant in the room, except for a few growls from John. Behind the blindfold he was trying to blink, something inside him insisting if he did it enough he would be able to see what lay behind the black fabric.

Finally, after what felt like hours, a hand took hold of the blindfold and slipped it away from his eyes.

 

John blinked rapidly, glaring at the sudden blinding light. All he could make out were three black blurry figures. He turned his head down towards the ground, trying to get his eyes to adjust faster. When he finally saw his own nakedness clearly, his head shot up, so he could have a clear look at who he thought was Sherlock.

His glare turned into confusion when he realized that none of the three blurry spots were Sherlock Holmes. The two men on either side of the man in the middle, who seemed like he was the most important, were both in all black suits and ties. The one on the right had been the one to take away John’s blindfold, which he now placed on the wall on one of the free hooks.

 

John’s glare came to rest on the man in the middle, who was staring back at him. His right hand was caressing the handle of an elegant umbrella.

He seemed important in his expensive suit, the coif of red hair atop his head seemingly sculpted. He studied John with intelligent blue eyes, his line of vision going along his striking nose. Tilting his head slightly to the left he finally opened his mouth to speak.

 

“Doctor Watson. What a different image you make like this,” he lifted his umbrella to point at John’s restraints and his bare skin, “in comparison with what you look like in your uniform.”

 

John’s heart beat faster, his mind racing. This man knew he was a doctor, and he knew he’d been military. Did he know him? He tried his best to place the man’s face, but he had never seen him before; he wasn’t even in the slightest familiar to him. He wanted to ask: _Who are you? How do you know me?_ But he couldn’t.

 

“I must say, I quite liked the look of you in your military garb; those defined muscles of yours were not to be hidden by _that_ fabric. They made you look strong and powerful and determined. Like a leader. Like someone not to be tangled with.”

The man frowned slightly and pursed his lips. His thin lips then stretched into a smile, and his cold eyes sparkled.

 

John knew that look. He’d seen it before, in Moran’s eyes, and in Sherlock’s. His heart sunk.

 

“But like this,” the man shook his head, still smiling, “nothing to be compared with. Such strength and beauty, power and anger, held down, made to stay put for days and weeks. I have never seen a man with such determination in his eye, like you, Doctor Watson. And I am a man known to see rare things, and often enough, I also want to own them. To make them mine. I’m sure you understand what I mean.”

 

John did know what he meant. He knew exactly. And he didn’t want it; he didn’t want it with Moran, or with Sherlock, and now this man. He would never want it.

He had thought that Sherlock was the last one, the only one from now on to lay a finger on him. Sherlock had made it clear that he didn’t want anyone else touching him.

 

This man had no right to just walk in there and say things like that. John was spoken for; he wasn’t supposed to be whored out to different men. He belonged.

 

John had no time to question what made him think like that. The man kept speaking.

 

“When I heard what you had done, and where you had ended up, I had to come see for myself that it was true. And now, that I can see you with my own two eyes, I must believe it, don’t I? And truly, what a sight it is.”

 

Some part of John’s brain was still trying to figure out how this man knew him, but that part shrunk with more every word the man uttered.

 

“Every man wishes to have power. Now, when one has a lot of power, some choose to give up trying to gain more, or they lie to themselves and say that they are satisfied with the amount they have. But truly, they can never have enough. I personally have achieved a level of power that is very hard to surpass. So when an opportunity like this shows itself it is… difficult to resist.”

 

The man moved for the first time since John had laid eyes on him, and took a step closer, staring down at him. John could see that this man would not bend down, even if a pile of gold were lying on the floor.

 

“You, Doctor Watson, are certainly not one of the most powerful men in the world, or ever were one of them. But I have rarely seen someone so defiant about his fate. With every fibre of your being you refuse to accept that you are who you are now, a slave to serve with everything you are and will ever be. I have broken many people in my lifetime.

 

Now I want to see if I can break you.”

 

John’s heart was beating in his ears. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Where was Sherlock? Sherlock would tell this man that he wasn’t allowed to do that. But where was he? It had been twelve days since his last visit.

A horrible feeling settled in John’s chest, restricting his breathing. What if Sherlock had grown disinterested? What if he had given John up for the use of all the other people that wanted to have a go at him?

 

His head was pounding with fear, and he could feel his strength slip. But in the last moment he took hold of it and pulled it back to himself, biting, glaring harder. He wasn’t going to give up. Not after he had come this far. If Sherlock truly had given him up for open use, all the better for him. He had bitten through it, and he could get through this too.

 

He shook with suppressed anger at Sherlock and this stranger. This new man who thought he could waltz into his life and try to destroy it. John wouldn’t let him. So he flared his nostrils and glared back into the icy depths that were the man’s eyes.

 

The man smiled again and chuckled low. “That’s exactly what I want to see, Doctor Watson. This is why I came to you, instead of any of the other millions of slaves that could be at my disposal in a moment if I saw fit.”

 

John snarled, showing his teeth digging into the ball. He clenched his hands into fists behind his back, knowing that if this man actually wanted to fuck him in any way, he would have to move him. There was no other way. A tiny sliver of hope was still there though - maybe he could scare the man into leaving; after all, he had taken out three men during his capture before they managed to get him under control.

 

But his disadvantage was of course that the possibility of getting out of his bonds enough so that he could take them down was tiny. Something inside of him was still hoping that Sherlock would turn up any moment now, telling this man to leave John the fuck alone. But that thought vaporized exactly when the man made a little wave of his hand, gesturing for one of his companions to do something.

 

The man that had been gestured to now walked to the glass door, pushing the button to speak to the guards on the outside of the room. “Bring it in,” he said.

 

Not a minute after, the door opened and two guards wheeled in a very heavy looking sawhorse, with padded cuffs where the wrists and ankles would go. John’s eyes went wide.

This powerful stranger had been making arrangements before he even got here. Swallowing heavily, John glared, rolling his shoulders. The sawhorse came to a stop about a meter in front of him, after the man with the umbrella had stepped aside.

 

The man was watching now how John tried to hide his discomfort and his fear. He breathed heavily around the gag, staring from one man to the next.

 

“Well go on please, I don’t have all day. Strap him to it already.”

 

One of the guards went around John to kneel down behind him and to undo the chain. The straps encircling his legs would have to be removed as well; after all they expected him to unbend his legs. John mentally steeled himself, even though he knew that it was almost impossible to incapacitate four grown men, maybe a fifth - John didn’t know if the stranger would be able to fight.

 

John took a deep breath, briefly closing his eyes. He kept himself calm, tried not to squirm too much, hoping to give them a false sense of safety and security. He could hear the chain clink, as it was unhooked.

 

He opened his eyes slowly, so he could watch how the second guard started to unbuckle the straps from his thighs. One by one they fell aside, John still kneeling, calm as he could stay on the ground. He could feel the stranger’s eyes on himself, making him shiver with disgust.

When all the straps were gone from his thighs, the guards grabbed him by his upper arms and pulled him to a stand. John felt his thighs burn, after being stretched for the first time after hours. He stood, and the guards already started to push him towards the sawhorse, trying to make him bend over, but John pushed back just slightly. He gave the stranger a short fierce look, and then he fell back.

 

The guards didn’t see it coming; John hadn’t fought them in weeks and every time they took him out to be washed he had been tamer, easier to handle, so it came out of the blue for them and they weren’t ready.

So when John fell back, turning himself to the right, the guard on his left lost his grip on John’s shoulder, the right was spun so that he was face to face with John, his hand still on John’s right shoulder. He enjoyed the very short moment of shock and just a little bit of fear on the guard’s face, before he threw his head back and whipped it forward against the man’s face.

The man gave a cry of pain and fell backwards against the wall with the hooks. John didn’t have time to watch the blood drip from the guard’s nose and lip, he spun around to face the other one, who had by now understood what was happening. With a practiced kick, John kneed him in the crotch, and the guard crumpled to the floor.

 

John knew immediately that it had been the right decision to incapacitate the guards first, because both of them must still have a remote to his collar. He just needed to scare the stranger enough before they managed to bring him down with electricity. He whirled around to look at the stranger, ducking a swing from one of his companions.

 

And he charged towards him, no time to wonder why the man was smiling until he felt the shock of 50,000 volts pulsing through his the collar into his skin and through his whole frame, his body crumpled, he fell to his knees, and even through the paralyzing pain he heard them crack as they connected with the floor. The small doctor part of him that was still active after weeks of being held as a slave, was glad that he had something in his mouth, because his jaw had locked against the silicone, and if that hadn’t been there, it might as well have been his tongue.

 

He was about to fall forward when the collar suddenly stopped sending electricity through his body, and he felt a hand grab the hair atop his head to keep him upright. The hand in his hair slowly turned his head upwards, and the man with the umbrella stared down at him. John gave all he had to keep looking back through half-lidded eyes. Something like wonder was visible on the stranger’s features: “Thank you so much Doctor Watson, that was quite an impressive show, and tells me that you’re the right man for this job.”

 

John was still shaking from the after-shocks of the electricity when he felt strong hands on his arms, pulling him towards the sawhorse, the hand in his hair slipped away as John was dragged to his demise.

 

He had known that it was useless; nonetheless, he had to try, because that was who he was. He couldn’t just stay limp while he was brought to be molested.

 

_“So all I have to do to make you leave me alone is lie here like a ragdoll?” A hot tear slid over the rim of John’s in anger-narrowed eyes._

_Sherlock pouted his lips, and then curled them into a cruel smile. “Yes, that would do. But you won’t do that, will you? You might try, but you’re not a person to go down without a fight.” He bent down to whisper into John’s ear: “Then you can tell yourself that you at least tried.”_

 

Sherlock had been right. His eyes were wide as he was bent over the sawhorse, his ankles locked into the cuffs. He was still unable to get his limbs to move even an inch. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, and he felt so weak as they untied his arms, and brought them down to the cuffs. He couldn’t even get his eyes to glare at the man who was now leaning his umbrella against the wall. He also removed his jacket and handed it to one of his companions, and then he started to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. John felt a tear roll down his cheek, onto the leather padding of the sawhorse.

 

He hoped the man wouldn’t see, prayed that something would happen to end this, here and now.

Slowly he was starting to regain feeling and power over his arms and legs, but they were tightly locked in place. He felt his cheeks flush hot, when the sawhorse underneath him started to move, to roll backwards slowly into the centre of the room.

He unclenched his fists, feeling his knuckles creak, and his knees were throbbing. With a loud bang the sawhorse suddenly stood steady on the floor, unmoving and heavy.

 

The last thing one of the guards did before leaving, was to hook the d-ring from his collar onto the end of the sawhorse, so that John wouldn’t be able to move his head much either. John didn’t know which of the guards it had been, the one with the aching crotch or the broken nose.

Either way, he knew that he was going to regret his actions as soon as this man was done with him. They would make sure that they’d get their payback, and since Sherlock wasn’t here, they needn’t be afraid of consequences.

 

John’s heart felt heavy, and he didn’t dare admit why.

 

The glass door closed behind them, and John groaned in pain, when he finally got back control over his vocal cords. He shortly pressed his eyes shut, trying to pinpoint all the different parts of his body that hurt, but it was useless, since all of him felt like an elephant had trampled on him. He sucked in a deep breath, opening his eyes again, facing the bitter reality.

 

The stranger was done with his sleeves, and now sat in the one chair the room offered. He had his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap. Giving a long sigh he looked at John and shook his head, almost with pity in his eyes.

 

“You didn’t really think I’d enter this room without a remote to your collar, did you?” He revealed a tiny black square, which he had been holding. John gave an angry confused look. “Why I didn’t press the button sooner? Oh, well, Doctor, I wanted to see how far you’d get. And it was quite a pleasing display. I wasn’t misinformed. You really are a fighter, and you won’t give up. I admire that.”

 

The way John’s collar was chained to the sawhorse made it so that he couldn’t turn his face away. He wished he could have, so he wouldn’t have to look at the smug bastard’s face.

 

So he glared instead, and ignored the straps of the gag cutting into his cheek.

 

“I know I don’t have to tell you what I came here for today, Doctor Watson. Or may I call you John? Regarding how intimate we’re going to get today, I think it’s only appropriate we are on first name bases. You may think of me as Mycroft, John.”

 

John tried to not let the meaning of the words get to him. He really did know why the man had come today, but he would rather just get it over with instead of hearing him talk about it.

 

He shifted slightly against the soft leather that pressed against his chest and abdomen. Knowing how exposed his backside was, he wasn’t comfortable at all with not seeing the guards because that meant they were standing back there, and they could see everything.

The man who called himself Mycroft slowly stood and put the remote for John’s collar into his pocket. “I don’t suppose I’m going to need this again today.”

 

John felt nauseous and defeated. He watched how the man turned to look at the wall behind him, with all the different toys hanging from them. His eyes were quick in flying across the whole selection. And then with a single-minded motion he took down a medium-sized pink dildo. John swallowed what drool he could, and felt the rest trickle by the ball and over his cheek, to pool underneath the side of his head.

 

“I think this should make for enough preparation. Even though my cock is much bigger, I’m sure this will help you to relax and be a… a nice precursor to the night’s events.” The man held the dildo in his right hand and when he mentioned his cock, he subtly cupped his erection, which John could now not ignore. Indeed, even through his trousers, John could see that his cock was of quite a size. He bit back a whimper. And closed his eyes as the man went to stand behind him, he hadn’t touched John’s skin yet, but John already felt like this man had soiled him all over. He felt dirty, filthy and he knew that the feeling wouldn’t decrease throughout the session.

 

He squirmed in his bonds, and gasped quietly when he felt gentle warm hands run down his back. He must have handed the dildo to one of the other men. John shuddered at the feeling. With closed eyes, he replaced the image of that stranger standing behind him, with Sherlock.

Strangely that calmed him. He didn’t care that it was all sorts of wrongs, and that Sherlock had raped him, not two weeks ago. But this was different, Sherlock had not only given him pain, he had also given him pleasure, and John had thought that Sherlock had felt more than just sexual attraction to John; he thought that he had seen something in Sherlock’s eyes the last time he’d been there. Apparently he had been wrong.

 

He drew in a shaking breath, feeling the long slender fingers on his back. They felt so similar to Sherlock’s. The whole illusion was shattered when the man spoke again.

 

“You wouldn’t believe how rarely I indulge, John. I don’t want to spoil my appetite for sex with second-class slaves, or people who throw themselves at me because I am a man of power. I wait and search, I observe and determine who deserves my attention. I have been watching you for quite a while, John, and you have never even once disappointed me. I’m sure you would have tried to, if you’d known I had my eye on you, but you didn’t. And that’s what counts. I must say, I am a bit disappointed that I am not the first one to get…” the roaming fingers came to a halt on John’s arse cheeks, “a taste of you.”

 

John’s heart picked up its pace. So the man knew that someone else had visited him. This must have meant that he knew John was not up for use, or that truly, Sherlock had given him up. John felt his chest squeeze tightly, and his stomach churn.

 

The man continued to knead John’s arse cheeks. A sudden slap made John wince. But he didn’t make a sound. On principle.

 

“Look at you now, John. Only a few months ago you were a military man. Looked up to, respected. What have you become? A toy for people to use, to be irreversibly marked.”

John was angry; he was shaking with suppressed anger. Everyone kept reminding him of who he had been, and what had happened, Sherlock had told him that he knew, told him that he didn’t care about his innocence. No one ever would, no one would try and help him get out of there. John growled when the man pressed one single finger up against his hole. At least the man wouldn’t get the satisfaction of being the first one to use him.

 

“Oh dear, I quite like the look of this.” He let go with one hand, so that he could slap John’s arse again. “And this.” John’s eyes went wide when he felt the hand on his cock, warmly encircling his shaft, slowly pumping up and down. Cursing himself, he tried all he could to keep himself from getting hard.

Nothing worked. He felt a flush creep all the way up his back and on his face, when he felt his cock swell in the man’s grip.

 

An icy chuckle sounded above his head. “I always knew you had a thing for adrenaline, John.”

The hand left his cock, now hanging heavy and full between his legs. He cringed when a few seconds later the slicked head of the dildo was pressed up against his hole. He tried to relax, tried to stay still, but that just wasn’t in his nature. He started squirming, breathing harder. He didn’t want that dildo inside of him, let alone this man’s cock.

The man was stronger than he looked. He pressed John’s pelvis against the sawhorse, hard enough that John could feel its edges, even through the padding. John gave little huffs when the dildo pressed harder against his entrance.

 

He still wasn’t used to the feeling, and relaxing for a dildo isn’t the same as for the finger of a doctor who was performing a prostate exam. When the dildo pressed onward without relenting, John whimpered slightly, because it hurt.

 

“Oh, well now, that’s a sound I like to hear from you, John. Keep them coming, if I am pleased, I am much more lenient and tend to go slower.”

 

John took a deep breath and spoke, even with the gag in his mouth: “Fuck you.” The words came out garbled and unintelligible. The man chuckled once more, and John suddenly felt lips against his shoulder blade, which made him shudder in disgust. He gasped when the dildo’s head popped into him, and kept going deeper.

 

It felt like it was going inside forever, and it hurt more and more. And John had given up trying to hold back the sounds he was making. He was gasping and moaning in pain. It subsided quickly though when the man brushed against John’s prostate. He gave a very quiet sob, hoping that the stranger hadn’t heard it. But he had hoped for naught.

 

“What a sweet sound John, you are full of surprises.” The man’s voice was dripping with foul honey. The man went on to fucking John with the dildo, slowly at first, but faster towards the end. He tried to ignore the breathy moans he heard from above him, and despite his attempts to keep his hole clenched, he started to feel himself loosen up. Which meant that the man was getting closer and closer to the point of actually doing what he had come here for. He gave a full sob, not caring what the man was going to say, because this was the second time he was ready to beg not to be raped.  

 

“Sweet John, I am going to take my time with you, I want you to feel every drag of my cock inside your tight, pink hole.”

And then suddenly, the dildo was gone, and he felt empty. He could feel his muscles flutter, trying to close up what was before stretched.

 

John was ready to retch when he heard the belt buckle clink and the flies being opened. He closed his eyes, ignoring the saliva that coated the whole side of his face, ignoring the hot tears that were sliding down his nose, ignoring the padded sawhorse digging into his skin from below, ignoring the cuffs that held him in place to be reduced to a mere thing.

 

The moment he felt the blunt head of the man’s cock nudge against his sore and abused hole, he gave up.

 

The sound of something pounding, the sound of shouting made John open his eyes again, trying to blink away the tears that made it hard to see clearly. He heard the glass door open, and then, then he heard him. He heard the voice, heard the words that made everything better.

 

“Get your dirty hands off him!” The words burned with absolute hatred.

John slumped against the sawhorse, boneless, dragging in deep breaths, trying to get his sobbing under control.

 

Sherlock was here; he’d come to stop this terrible thing from happening. He hadn’t forgotten John. He wanted to thank Sherlock, wanted to fall onto his aching knees to thank him for sparing him this.

 

“How dare you come in here and lay your fat hands on _my_ slave?”

John heard clothes rustling, and the pressure was removed from his hole.

 

“What do you mean _your_ slave, you haven’t been here to see him for twelve days.” He heard the familiar sound of flesh hitting flesh, which told him that the stranger had been slapped in the face.

 

“Get. The fuck. Out of here. Before I strangle you _myself_.” Sherlock was livid; his voice, shaking with fury.

 

John’s heart felt lighter than it had in weeks, ever since he had been brought to this hellhole. He felt his limbs tremble.

 

He barely saw the three men leave; they rushed past John in such a hurry. John was crying freely now, and when the heard the door close, he sobbed loudly. Suddenly he felt a warm, soft and comforting hand on his back, stroking him gently. John relished the familiar touch.

 

Sherlock crouched down beside the sawhorse, so he was on an eye level with John, his hand stroked up his neck into his hair, softly petting him. John had never seen Sherlock look this angry or distressed. His eyes moved quickly all over John’s face. Deft fingers came to brush away the rolling tears.

“I’m sorry. So sorry John.” He looked at John and pressed his lips into a tight line, then he leaned forward and kissed his wet cheek. Soft lips. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I told them that you were mine. Told them… not to let anyone else… touch you.”

 

Another flash of fury crossed Sherlock’s face. “I will make sure they regret it, John.”

 

John was so grateful in that moment, he forgot what Sherlock had done before, he didn’t care what had happened before today; all that mattered was that Sherlock had come.

 

John looked back at Sherlock, his eyes wide, and he tried to put as much thankfulness into his look as he could.

 

“I won’t let this happen again John. I promise.” Laying his forehead against John’s he said: “I’m taking you home.”

 

And all that John could do was nod.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft stood outside and waited for Sherlock. His umbrella in his hand a stern look on his bruised face.

 

He motioned to his black eye and said: “Was this really necessary?” Sherlock didn’t smile. With his hands buried deeply in his coat pockets he spoke: “Yes it was. You went further than we agreed upon.”

 

Mycroft lifted his chin and looked at Sherlock, sniffing.

 

“You know, you are lucky you got to him first. Pure luck. You owe me, Sherlock. First of all because I really wanted to fuck that soldier, and secondly because now he truly only belongs to you. You better take care that he doesn’t run off, or I might just make sure he won’t. None of my slaves ever get away.”

 

Sherlock glared at Mycroft and said: “If you think I’ll thank you for fucking him with a dildo, and nearly with your cock, then you need to get your head checked. And if I ever catch you touching him again without my explicit approval, I will chop your hand off.”

 

Without another word, Sherlock whirled around to walk back inside the slave house to look after his property.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry  
> so so so so sorry  
> I know this hurts.  
> But I hope you liked it anyway... :D <3
> 
> Let me know what you thought in the comments?  
> Any favourite lines?  
> Any hopes as to what might follow?


	5. Welcome Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so so so so so so so so sorry that I made you wait so long D: YOU ARE FAR TOO PATIENT WITH ME AND I HOPE YOU CAN FORGIVE MEEEEEEE!!!! I hope you like it, even if you hate me :') 
> 
> Thank you so much to the most amazing Beta ever, Milarca!!!! You are the most patient and wonderful person!!!!! :)
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock could barely believe his own eyes. He would never have thought this possible, let alone that it would actually happen.

 

He ran his hand through John's hair. Sleeping John's hair.

 

Even though he was wearing a muzzle and heavy shackles on both ankles and wrists, John was sleeping voluntarily. He had lain down and hadn't stopped Sherlock from drawing his head down into his lap. And he had seemed to enjoy Sherlock's finger tips scratching against his scalp. John was exhausted, and of course that helped with this new trust that was evolving between them.

 

Sherlock smiled down at John, studying his beautiful face. He remembered the time John had been out cold from his cleaning session. He'd watched him then, too. But this was different; this wasn't forced stillness and quiet. And that's what made Sherlock's chest swell with pride; he'd managed to win that much trust from John. He didn't mind that he'd used lies and fear to get it.

 

John's lashes fluttered in his sleep, and his chest gently rose and fell. He was wearing clothes for the first time. Light white linens. The shirt had rode up his side, revealing his once tanned skin, now pale. Ever since they'd taken him into custody, he hadn't been allowed outside.

 

When they'd led John out of the slave house and into the sunshine for the first time in months, he’d smiled. Sherlock had been able to tell even though he couldn't see his mouth, the beautiful crinkles around his kind blue eyes had spoken volumes. Sherlock hadn't seen him smile before, and as he'd watched this, he knew that he had to have that smile all to himself, just like he had the rest of him.

 

They were in the car now, with the wide back seat, and Sherlock couldn't wait to show John his new home, but he also wanted to savour this intimate time he was having with him right now.

 

The guards had been so surprised that John went willingly. He hadn't even fought as they put the padded restraints on him, and he'd looked at Sherlock, with that same grateful look in his eyes. Sherlock loved seeing John so soft and pliable and kind. It was a welcome change from his usual glaring, grunting, and cursing.

 

The change made it once again clear to Sherlock that John could make it difficult for everyone if he wanted to, and since Sherlock really didn't feel like dragging John back to his home, he wasn't going to ruin this peace they were enjoying, not a minute too soon.

 

He allowed a small smile to cross his lips as he looked down at his pet and stroked his hair.

 

Sherlock loved the collar they had made John wear at the slave house, so since they took it off when they had sent John home with him, he had his mind set on getting another one. But that one would be engraved, and have a tracker inside as well as a seamless lock which could only be opened by Sherlock's voice.

 

Just as their car turned the corner onto Sherlock’s street, John stirred, almost as if he had felt his new home coming into view.

 

Sherlock adored how John's eyelids fluttered open, and how immediately his alertness returned. He sat up straight and looked out the window as the car slowed. His eyes widened when he saw the house. Sherlock smirked. 221 Baker Street was not a shabby address.

 

It belonged to one of the richest parts of London. A part that many weren’t even allowed to enter. Sherlock stepped outside the car and held the door wide open so John could follow. John did without being told.

 

He seemed dumbstruck by the size and beauty of the townhouse. It was white and pure and beautiful. Sherlock’s home. Their home.

 

John looked up at it, quiet and considerate. Sherlock watched John carefully, measuring his reaction. He then put his left hand at the small of John’s back, pushing him gently in the direction of the door. John tensed, and glanced at him, but then followed without resistance.  

 

Until they came to the door. There, he stopped in his tracks, his breathing accelerated. He looked over his shoulder, down the street, and up into the sky, and then at Sherlock, eyes pleading.

Sherlock’s lips twitched slightly.

 

“If you’re good, we can go on walks.”

 

John’s brow crinkled with something akin to realization. His eyes flitted back to the street. He nodded, jaw set. Sherlock couldn’t help the small smile that flitted across his face. He slid his hand up to squeeze the nape of John’s neck as they entered the house.

John’s new home.

 

As  they walked down the long hall, Sherlock noticed how John’s hands were clenched into fists. He was nervous, of course; insecure, and scared. What else would one expect from a slave. Sherlock hummed reassuringly, making sure John could feel his presence at his side, not wavering for even a second.

 

Sherlock appreciated the silence between them. John could have talked if he had wanted to. The muzzle only kept him from using his teeth like the weapons they could be.

 

He knew John was listening to every sound he made. He might seem like he was lost in thought, but Sherlock recognised the tension, the little ticks, the micro-expressions on John’s face that told him that he was listening.

 

He spoke quietly as he caressed John’s neck with his thumb. “You know, I have never taken a slave home. Not under quite these circumstances, at least.” There was the slightest difference in John’s intake of breath.

 

“I have brought some home to experiment on them… Nothing _too_ dangerous, of course.”

 

John kept walking, trying not to let on, but Sherlock saw that he was quickly losing the little trust that he had built up with him. “Not to worry though, John. I would never experiment on you. You’re much too precious.”

 

John’s head snapped up to look at Sherlock, eyes wide with shock and anger. Sherlock’s smile faded. “What?”

 

John looked horrified, and appalled.

 

“You have no idea how much you cost,” Sherlock continued, “let alone all the equipment in your playroom. I didn’t shy away from any of it.”

 

Through the holes in the muzzle, John’s mouth twisted into a snarl. Sherlock lifted his chin slightly. “Don’t even think about it.”

 

John’s knuckles were white, fists balled in front of him.

 

Sherlock still had his hand on John’s neck, so before John even had the chance to move, he squeezed hard and pushed his other hand up against John’s chest, forcing him against the wall.

 

The thud was loud in Sherlock’s ears, and for a moment he feared he’d hurt John somehow. But then he remembered who he was dealing with. He pushed his left hand up against John’s throat.

 

He took the chain that bound John’s hands and pulled it down, keeping John immobile. John glared at him, eyes fiery. “Just because I let you sleep in my lap, doesn’t mean you’re my puppy, John. I will do to and with you whatever I like, and you have _absolutely_ no say in it. None whatsoever. _Do you understand?_ ”

 

John snarled audibly, his pulse racing under Sherlock’s fingertips. “You may own me on paper, but you sure as fuck don’t own my spirit.”

 

Sherlock considered that for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see,” he said. He tightened his grip on John’s throat. John’s eyes widened fractionally. Sherlock remembered their first meeting, how the leather strap had tightened around John’s neck, leaving him gasping for breath.

 

The memory had him throbbing with desire. He loathed that John’s mouth was covered, now. He wished to rip the muzzle away and kiss him, make him his, while holding on tightly to his throat, keeping him in place, reminding him what he was.

 

And that if he wanted to, he could just simply kill John. Killing John, though.

 

He wouldn’t.

 

He couldn’t imagine it.

 

He loved his John too much. His little fighter, the constant struggle, the never ending fire that burned bright inside of him. But up until today, everyone else had failed to live up to his expectations. As all people did in the end, really. Or had simply got boring. Who knew. Maybe John would end up on that list, too, someday. But not for some time yet.

 

So Sherlock settled for a firm squeeze to John’s throat, which left John gasping. Sherlock pressed a kiss to the muzzle, feeling John’s breath on his own. He held John against the wall for a few seconds longer, watching him. John glared back, his breathing heavy.

 

It reminded Sherlock of how Redbeard would look at him. The setter would stare back at him with big brown eyes, and then, when the dog looked away, Sherlock knew that he knew who was really in charge.

 

Sherlock hoped to get John to that point someday. When he could stare him down, and make him lower his eyes, knowing that it was no use. He longed for the day when that would happen, but he also feared it, because it would make John boring. Predictable. And there was nothing Sherlock hated more than predictability.

 

When John’s eyes started to flutter closed, Sherlock finally released him. John gasped for air, falling to his knees. Sherlock allowed it for all of two minutes before he took the chain to John’s cuffs and dragged him to his feet. John made a choked sound as he was hauled back up, and glared, still out of breath. Though he didn’t struggle as Sherlock pulled him down the hallway.

 

Sherlock opened one of the many doors they’d already passed and gave John a little shove inside.

 

“This is your room, John.”

 

John glanced from the room to Sherlock and back, surprised.

 

It was a normal room. It had a big bed, a washing room, just adjacent, and there was a bowl of fruit on a table and chairs. There were quite a few books and pens on the table as well.

 

"Please note that - should you anger me - punishments will be executed."

 

John looked down after a moment, hands curling into fists, the memory of what had happened mere moments ago fresh in his mind.

 

"And I can assure you… you will not find them pleasant."

 

John's breathing was even as he thought about this.

 

“You must be hungry,” Sherlock said, and stepped between John and the table. He took a key from inside his jacket and put it into the lock on John’s cuffs, removing them. John wasn’t about to be difficult.

 

Kneeling down, he also removed the restraints around John’s ankles. John’s thighs tensed as he did so, and Sherlock’s lips twitched.  

 

Straightening, Sherlock slipped the key back into his pocket. “Get some rest. I’ll be back for you in a few hours for dinner.”

 

The realization that he would be left there with the muzzle dawned on John. His right hand flew up behind his head to the lock on the contraption. “What about this?” The words tumbled out of his mouth.

 

“Remember it,” Sherlock said simply. “The next time you feel like fighting me.”

 

He left without another word, and John swore under his breath. Sherlock locked the door and left for his own room. He knew  that John would try anything and everything to get the muzzle off. But nothing would work.

 

Sitting back in his chair and steepling his hands underneath his chin, he watched the video feed. He felt strangely exhilarated that he had the ability to survey John 24/7 if he so wished. And that he was never more than a few minutes away. If a need threatened to overcome him, all he had to do was walk down the hall.

 

John stood in the middle of the room, both hands working on the lock at the back of his head. He grunted in frustration, and Sherlock smiled, grateful once more that he had decided to include audio surveillance in the room. There were fifteen different cameras, all hidden in little nooks and crannies, recording every inch of the room. Sherlock had wondered what he would look like fucking John. Before, he had even tried to get the tapes at the slave house, but they had refused in no uncertain terms.

 

Now he had his own cameras and recording studio. He took a deep breath. His eyes were fixed on the screens, watching John from all angles.

 

John’s fingers shook as he pried at the lock.

 

“It’s not going to work, John, but by all means, try. I do so enjoy your relentless attempts at freedom,” Sherlock mumbled to himself, narrowing his eyes.

 

John paced the room. He looked around, searching for something to help him remove the muzzle. He would head for the pens soon enough, hoping one of the springs inside would help him open the lock. John searched through the ones that were on the table beside the bowl. He took a seat and opened the first pen. Sherlock loved how John’s movements faltered. There was no spring inside, nothing metal whatsoever. It was all plastic.

 

Hurriedly, John took the next pen. He opened it, and found the same thing. Everything was plastic. John whined softly in frustration. When all the pens had been taken apart, John sat there a moment, his hands clenching. One camera caught the emotions on his face wonderfully. Despair, anger, and most of all, hunger. His eyes kept flitting to the bowl filled with the most beautiful ripe fruit. Apples, pears, mangos, passion fruit, oranges, and grapes.

 

He grabbed one of the plastic ink cartridges and fumbled at the lock. He pushed it inside, and there was a flash of hope on John’s face when there was a clicking sound. He pulled the cartridge back, eyes wide. But instead of finding it whole, it had broken, and his fingers became quickly stained blue with ink.

 

“Bloody bastard!” John shouted. He grabbed one of the oranges and held it closely to his face. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Sherlock knew that look. Knew what his nose looked like when his nostrils flared, his jaw set, his teeth clenched.

 

John looked longingly at the orange, and then his eyes darkened. He stood abruptly and threw it across the room against the wall, where it splattered, broke open, and fell to the ground. John looked at the smashed fruit on the ground, chest heaving. He looked back at the bowl and took another orange. He studied it and then he took one of the pens. He stabbed the orange, threw the pen away, and held the fruit above his face.

 

“Ooh, smart boy,” Sherlock hummed. “Maybe one or two experiments wouldn’t go amiss with you.”

 

Pressing the orange in his hand, the juice started to drip. The little golden droplets fell down onto the muzzle. The juice seeped through the holes and John moaned.

 

Sherlock leaned forward in his seat and turned up the volume, listening closer.

 

John lapped up the juice from the orange behind the muzzle. He was making a mess of himself but obviously cared not a whit.

 

Sherlock felt arousal crowd his mind.

 

Was this the same moan that John made when he was about to come? The last time he had heard John moan, his mouth had been taped shut. This was a whole new experience. He was unrestricted, and Sherlock loved what he heard. Would he swear? Would he beg? What would happen if Sherlock brought him to the brink over and over, not actually letting him come? Would he moan exactly like that? Or would it be interspersed with whimpers and whines and pleas?

 

He had to find out. He would find out sooner or later. And even though he liked his pet gagged, and silenced, he would want to hear him once in a while as well.

 

As John drained the last of the juice from the orange, Sherlock leaned back again, licking his lips and palming himself through his trousers.

 

“You’re so beautiful. You don’t even know how gorgeous you are,” he said.

 

John squeezed out another two oranges the same way, making a mess of himself, his white shirt staining with the juice. He looked like an animal, so desperate for sustenance. Sherlock couldn’t wait for dinner, not because he himself wanted to eat, but because he wanted to see what John would do once his muzzle was removed.

 

When John was finished, he took the orange peels and put them in the bin in the corner of the room. He went to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face, cleaning his mouth as well as he could. Drinking was another challenge, though one much easier to do. He held his head underneath the tap and let if flow through the holes. Sherlock admired how John’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he drank.

 

He took one of the towels that hung beside the sink and dried his throat and chest. When he lifted his head, he caught his reflection in the mirror. He stared back at himself. Sherlock watched John through the camera placed directly behind the one-way glass, fascinated. John had no idea that the camera was there. It was as if he were looking directly into Sherlock’s eyes.

 

His features softened, despair clouding his face. There was so much sadness in his blue eyes. He touched the muzzle, and stroked along the edge, on the sides, and over his nose.

 

Sherlock’s heart sped up as he watched John explore the device covering his mouth. John’s thumb traced the edge, trying to find a crack he could slip a nail under to yank it off, but failed. It was securely attached to his head via hard plastic straps. He growled in frustration.

 

And then, tears welled up in his eyes. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes, the tears spilling, marking his cheeks and dampening the plastic of the muzzle. He stared into the mirror, looking for all the world, dejected, beaten, like a—

 

“Like a dog.”

 

He wrenched away from the mirror, striding back into the room. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the screen, liking the idea _._

 

But then - it wasn’t true. Something inside his chest twinged, and he attempted to ignore it.  He pushed the uncomfortable thought from his mind, focusing on John again.

 

John crawled into the bed, pulling the blankets over himself. Curling up, he closed his eyes, unable to stop the tears that spilled down his cheeks. But as he fell into sleep, they stopped, leaving drying tracks on his cheeks. Sherlock kept watching until John’s breathing was slow and even.

 

Then, after a few hours, it was time for dinner. And Sherlock was bored. He wanted to see John moving again. Awake. He opened the door and walked in without any preamble. He stood by the side of the bed.

 

“Dinner,” he said, not quite loudly, but loudly enough to wake John from his slumber.

  
John stirred. He blinked up at Sherlock. It only took a second for him to realize where he was. Then he threw the blankets back and sat up at the edge of the bed. He glared up at Sherlock.

 

“And how do you suggest I eat with this— this _thing_ strapped to my face.”

 

“Well, obviously, we’re going to take it off beforehand, John. Don’t be stupid. We wouldn’t want you to starve on your first night here.”

 

John watched Sherlock anxiously, hands tense in the sheets at the edge of the bed.

 

“Come on,” Sherlock barked, and John jolted to his feet as Sherlock walked irritably out of the room.

 

John walked a few paces behind him, bare feet padding against the marble floors.

 

Sherlock led him down the hallway, into a pleasant looking room. There was a dark wood table, and the light was welcoming and kind on John’s eyes. All in all it was very good on his eyes, considering he’d only been looking at white walls for the past few weeks. The table in the middle of the room was laden with steaming, amazing-smelling food; there was meat, potatoes, and vegetables of all kinds. It made John’s mouth water.

 

Sherlock pulled the chair back on one side of the table, and John hesitantly took a seat. He tried to ignore feeling like he was being treated like a female. It was better than being treated like a dog, at least.

 

Sherlock didn’t take a seat opposite him; instead, he rummaged inside one of the drawers in a cabinet that was standing on the far wall to the left of John. Sherlock made sure to hold the object in plain view as he came back to the table. It was a red box, wrapped in velvet. John stared at it, curious, as well as fearful.

 

“Put your palms flat on the table,” Sherlock said, “I want to see them at all times.”

 

John looked at Sherlock but did as he was told. He opened the latch on the box, and then the lid. Inside lay a black collar. Not unlike the one from the slave house.

 

John’s face darkened, and his fingers twitched. Both of them were aware of the knife that lay only inches from his hand.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Sherlock said. “Unless you want to be tied down for every single meal from now on, and have me spoon feed you.” John’s hands stilled, but the tension stayed.

 

Sherlock lifted the collar out of its box and placed it around John’s neck. His fingers brushed over John’s racing pulse. There was no latch like there usually was on a collar. Instead, he fit the ends of it together, and then, to the device, he said, enunciating each syllable: “I am a dog.”

 

The ends merged together, held tightly, as if it had never been separated. The collar was padded and it felt soft against John’s skin.

 

“What did you just say? What happened?”

 

Sherlock stood back and eyed the collar that now encircled John’s neck. “I’ve just locked the collar onto you permanently. Unless _I_ say those exact words again, the collar will stay locked.”

 

John’s hand twitched.

 

“You can touch it,” Sherlock said after a moment. “You won’t be able to get it off, but...” John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, but his fingers flew up to the collar. He sought the buckle, the latch. But there was nothing. It was seamless.

 

John worked at the collar, fingers fumbling and slipping beneath the padding, going around it several times. Sherlock enjoyed how John didn’t give up. That he didn’t immediately just accept that it was useless.

“What the hell is this?” John finally demanded, “This sort of technology doesn’t exist!” His eyes bore into Sherlock helplessly, confusion written in every line of his face.

 

Sherlock didn’t answer immediately, going to stand just behind John. John had enough sense not to twist around to look at him. “Hold still,” Sherlock said, and then he took a key from his pocket and unlocked the muzzle. He caught it as it fell from John’s face.

 

He took a seat on the other side of the table and set the muzzle beside his own plate, before steepling his fingers underneath his chin.

 

John watched him, and then despondently slipped his thumb into the d-ring in front of it, pulling on it slightly. His fingers moved to grip at the collar, desperate to remove it.

 

“Who _are_ you?” he managed, voice near breaking.

 

“Someone with access to quite a few things that are not available to the public,” Sherlock said simply.

 

John swallowed hard, glaring at the empty plate in front of him. After a moment, he put his hands back on the table.

 

“Don’t worry, John. You’ll get used to it quite quickly. And I tried to make you comfortable, didn’t I? You aren’t tied up at all hours of the day like you were at that mess of an establishment I took you away from.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock suddenly shouted. John jumped in his seat, looking to the door as if expecting someone to immediately walk out of it. He glanced to Sherlock, confused.

 

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.” The voice of an elderly lady came from somewhere in the next room. Then the face matching the voice appeared. Sherlock smiled at the woman, and she came to stand next to the table, her gaze finding John. Pity flashed briefly in her eyes, before she shot a cross look over to Sherlock. She pulled herself together a second later.

 

“What can I help you with today, Sher— Mr. Holmes?”

 

John watched her, confused. Sherlock saw his eyes dart quickly down to the silver bracelet on her wrist, and knew he had instantly come to the correct conclusion.

 

Mrs. Hudson wasn’t a free woman, that was true. She had been once. But that time was long gone.

 

“Would you please serve our guest some food?”

 

Mrs. Hudson’s brows lifted. “Of course, Mr. Holmes.” She put a generous amount of everything onto John’s plate. The glances she spared him were concerned, but she did not speak to him.

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock snapped. “You may go.” Mrs. Hudson glared at Sherlock.

 

“Very well, sir.”

 

John watched her leave, vaguely concerned.

 

“Dig in,” Sherlock said then, giving John his full attention, a small smile on his lips.

 

John looked at Sherlock, gave a short nod, and then took knife and fork to hand and started to work on the food. He ate quickly, but savoured every bite. Sherlock watched his movements with fascination. As John quieted his hunger, Sherlock was satisfying his own. When John was finished, he finally looked back to Sherlock. He took a drink from his glass of water.

 

“You didn’t eat anything,” John said then, for the first time noticing that Sherlock had nothing on his plate.

 

“I don’t require much nutrition.”

 

John’s brow furrowed, but he nodded. “Okay…”

 

The thoughts in John’s head were almost painfully obvious: _Maybe you’ll starve yourself to death then. Wouldn’t that be wonderful._

 

“I eat just as much as I need. Don’t worry about me,” he said, with a small smirk.

 

John still looked confused, but then he looked away. “Believe me when I say that I don’t,” he said, almost to himself.

 

“What was that?” Sherlock asked with mock confusion. John set his jaw.

 

Sherlock sniffed and picked up the muzzle. He lifted it up for John to see.

 

John glared at it stubbornly, a dullness in his eyes.

 

“You’ve eaten, John. You don’t need your mouth anymore.”

 

Rage flickered in John’s eyes.

 

“In fact, you don’t need your tongue anymore either. You would be fine for a few hours, hm? Or maybe longer? I’m certainly not ruling out intravenously feeding you.”

 

John swallowed, genuine worry replacing the anger. His eyes flicked to the door, then to Sherlock, and then down.

 

“Good response,” Sherlock said, with the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

 

He put the muzzle down, and stood. “Time for dessert.” He went back to the drawer out of which he’d taken the collar, and took out a matching leash. Holding it loosely in his hand, he looked at John, waiting for him to get up as well. John pushed the chair back and stood, eyeing the leash in Sherlock’s hand.

 

“We won’t need this just yet.”

 

John didn’t relax, though he did still look to Sherlock for alternate instruction. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

 

“However, if you don’t put the knife back on the table I will have to use it sooner than I wanted. Along with a few other things.”

 

John’s expression twisted into something resembling anger again, before it smoothed, and he took the knife out of his sleeve and put it on the table.

 

“Walk,” Sherlock instructed, nodding towards the door. John did, walking out the door with Sherlock right behind him.

 

They walked down the same hallway as before, and Sherlock stopped in front of John’s door again. He pushed the door open and they entered. Locking the door behind himself, Sherlock turned to the room, briefly scanning it. John watched him, and glanced in the direction he was looking. Sherlock heard him inhale ever slightly. Sherlock walked over to the wall on which the orange had spattered. He looked down at the mess and tutted. He then put his palm flat against the wall, and a door swung slowly open, revealing a hidden room.

 

“Go ahead,” Sherlock said, stepping aside. John’s eyes widened in shock. He hesitated for a second, but then, realizing he would get in trouble if he didn’t _move,_ he forced himself forward. His eyes flickered to Sherlock as he passed, walking into the new room.

 

If Sherlock hadn’t stepped in right after John, John would have backed right out of it again.

 

The room looked a lot like the one that John had occupied at the slave house. Only this one was bigger… and nearly every wall had an assortment of equipment hanging from it.

 

“Your playroom,” Sherlock said, leaning down to say the words into John’s ear. “Isn’t it magnificent?” He smirked slightly, watching John’s profile. He reached over and hooked his finger into the d-ring, as John had done not too long ago, and tugged it gently. He could feel John’s body, held tight like a spring. Then he released him and gave him a small push into the middle of the room. John stumbled in surprise and twisted back around.

 

“ _No!_ ” he cried, eyes hard and yet intense on Sherlock.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. He made a step towards John, who stumbled back in panic. “Take your clothes off, John.”

 

“ _No!_ ” John shouted, hands forming fists. “No, no, I won’t-won’t participate in your little game or-or whatever it is you—”

 

“What did you _think_ was going on here?” Sherlock snapped, cutting John off, watching him intensely. “That I’ve just saved you from the slave house only to take you home keep you here? As some kind of _guest_? You do remember why it was I sought you out at that wretched place, don’t you? Do you think my feelings for you have changed?”

 

John looked as if he’d been slapped. He blinked quickly at Sherlock, eyes wide and fixed on him. There was betrayal in his eyes.

 

“Now, I won’t say it again. Clothes. off.”

 

John straightened, his hands balled into fists at his sides. “And if I _don’t?_ ”

 

“Do you want to wager?”

 

John’s eyes widened momentarily.

 

“Shock,” Sherlock said, before he could answer.

 

The collar around John’s throat buzzed, John let out a choked cry, grabbing at the collar. He stumbled back farther, away from Sherlock.

 

He glared at Sherlock as he caught his breath, defiance not yet vanished.

 

“Shock,” Sherlock said again.

 

This time, John’s knees buckled out from under him, and he crumpled to the floor. He had cried out, and bitten his lip. His lower lip was wet with blood. His tongue darted out to lick it away and he swallowed hard.

 

“Take them off, John,” Sherlock said again, knowing that, if he wanted to, he could shock John into unconsciousness. But he wanted to see John humiliate himself. He wanted to see him take off his clothes, of his own free will. Sherlock couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips at the thought.

 

Carefully, John stood. He winced in pain, but there was an anger in his expression that was really quite something to behold, Sherlock thought, as he watched him.

 

“Fuck you, you pompous git,” John said.

 

Sherlock smiled. “Shock,” he said.

 

John screamed. It wasn’t even for a second, but it was enough, to make Sherlock’s fingers tingle. John fell to his knees again, one hand on the polished concrete, the other grabbing at the collar, scratching it.

 

“Do you want another, John?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to hide his smirk. It took John a moment to answer, before he looked up. His face was a twisted mess of pain and horror.

 

He closed his eyes for a moment. Then he sat back on his heels, and pushed himself up to stand again, shaking slightly.

 

He slowly moved his hands up over his head, grabbing the fabric of his shirt behind his head. He pulled his shirt over his head, and dropped it.

 

“Fold it,” Sherlock said sharply. “Neatly.”

 

John glared at him _._ But he bent over and picked it up. He folded it, and put it on the floor, almost gently.

 

Straightening up again, he hooked his thumbs underneath the waistband of his linen trousers. It took him a moment to actually get himself to push them down. But he did - in one quick motion. He stepped out and folded them similarly, and placed them on top of the shirt.

 

Now he stood, bare except for his pants and collar. He folded his hands behind his back, eyes devoid of emotion.

 

Sherlock watched him, letting the moment draw out, expression flat.

 

“Do you think you’re finished?”

 

John looked at him, a spark of anger suddenly showing itself in his eyes. “I hope so.”

 

Sherlock regarded him coolly.

 

“Flare,” he said, and before John realized what was happening, his eyes had rolled back into his head as he fell into unconsciousness. Sherlock stepped forward and caught John’s limp body as he fell. He gently laid him down on the ground, knowing that he had to move quickly before the paralyzation wore off.

 

Taking a remote from his jacket pocket, Sherlock pressed a button on it. From the ceiling, a chain lowered. Sherlock’s lips quirked. At the end of the chain were two shackles. These he fixed around John’s wrists. Next, he took a spreader bar from the wall and secured each side to John’s ankles. He then pressed a button on the remote again, and John’s body was pulled upward until only the balls of his limp feet touched the floor.

 

Sherlock admired John’s body. The leanness, the stretched muscles of his chest and stomach. The slightest hint of John’s shaved pubic hair, which had started to grow back. Sherlock licked his lips, waiting for John’s breathing to get faster, which it did.

 

Little sounds came along with the breathing; wheezing, and small grunts. John lifted his head and, realizing his situation, tensed, suddenly straining to keep his balanced as he wobbled on the very tips of his feet. He whined, starting to shake almost immediately.

 

“You’re twisted,” he said hoarsely.

 

“I know,” Sherlock said with a small, pleased smile. He walked up to John.

 

And then he looked down at the pants that he hadn’t made John strip out of. He made a face, and then reconsidered. He watched John’s expression as he traced the edge of the hem with his index finger, careful not to touch John’s skin.

 

John inhaled softly. Sherlock walked around John, admiring his arse. He felt both cheeks through the fabric of the pants, giving a gentle squeeze to each. John jerked forward, trying to move away from the unwelcome touch.

 

Sherlock then grabbed his pants and pulled them up, so they sank in between John’s cheeks. He held the fabric in his fist, and tugged, knowing that the fabric in front would stretch over his genitals. John was breathing hard, flushing already.

 

“Don’t you wish now, that you’d taken them off?” Sherlock hissed into John’s ear.

 

John didn’t reply. He breathed hard through his nose, nostrils flaring. Sherlock moved a hand around, and cupped John’s cock.

 

“Ohhh f—” John hissed, before he bit the rest back. Sherlock started to massage him through his pants, pressing the heel of his hand against John’s cock, which he felt stir.

 

“Does that feel good, John?”

 

“Please don’t,” John said weakly, pressing his eyes shut and shaking his head.

 

“Oh but, John, this is mine.” He squeezed John’s cock. Then he tugged on his balls. “As well as these.” He kissed John’s nape. “And the rest of you.”

 

“Get the fuck _off_ me!” John said suddenly, as if he’d just come back to himself. Sherlock released John as quickly as he’d touched him and moved away, to get the scissors as well as the leash. John’s eyes fixed on the scissors as soon as he saw them, breathing coming quicker as he stilled, fearful. Sherlock smirked, and cut through one side of the pants, which fell away, pooling around John’s right ankle, being held there with the spreader bar.

 

Then John’s eyes moved to the leash, and he watched with disgust as Sherlock clicked it into the ring on his collar. Sherlock tugged on the leash, making sure that John could feel it. John swallowed thickly, staring at Sherlock. He was flushed red, his chest moving with each shuddery breath he took.

 

Sherlock wrapped the leash around his hand once, then twice, and pulled John forward, his arms pulling back, towards the ceiling.

 

“What, what, what the _hell_ are you—” John whined, suddenly strained beyond belief as he was pulled forward.

 

And then Sherlock did the thing he’d been wanting to do for so long. One hand on the leash, he snaked his other hand up into John’s short, bristly blonde hair, and grabbed a fistful.

 

He pushed his lips up against John’s, feeling John’s teeth snap closed. He kissed roughly, and pulled on John’s hair until he opened up with a gasp. Licking into his mouth, he tugged on the leash, reminding John of who was in charge. John tried to twist his face away, to either side, but with Sherlock’s firm grasp on his hair, and his tight hold on the leash, he had nowhere to go.

  
Sherlock knew that John’s last resort was biting, which he did. Thankfully, he only caught Sherlock’s lip. Sherlock didn’t even mind all that much; he was just glad that he had finally got to taste _his_ John. Pulling back, he let go of John’s hair, and the leash.

 

John was a mess, his were lips red with blood, and he breathed hard through his mouth.

 

Sherlock touched a finger to his lips and saw blood. He smiled wickedly. “Thank you, John.” Grabbing hold of John’s hair once more, he pressed his bloodied lips to John’s cheek, leaving a macabre maroon stain on his already flushed skin. John pulled away, disgusted.

 

John’s erection had flagged. However, Sherlock’s was pressing uncomfortably against the inside of his trousers.

 

Sherlock unbuckled his belt audibly, making sure John could hear even as he walked to stand behind his prisoner. Sherlock watched how John’s body shook ever so slightly. Pulling the belt out of its loops, he held it in front of John’s face.

 

“Remind you of something? Our first meeting, John? How I wrapped that leather strap around your neck, and had that guard pull so tight, until you couldn’t breathe? You were so stubborn. And you haven’t changed much since then.” Sherlock licked at John’s scarred shoulder, and dropped the belt at his feet.

 

Sherlock reached down to unzip his trousers, feeling John’s shoulders tense up, as they always did when he knew that something he dreaded was going to happen. He pulled himself out of his pants, and stroked once from root to tip, feeling the familiar wetness of the precome sticking to his thumb. “I still fondly remember our first day… you’d got me so nice and hard, I could have easily fucked you with only your spit as lubricant.”

 

He could see John shake his head, shut his eyes. Sherlock looked up and grinned when he saw how white John’s knuckles were from being tightly balled. Trailing fingertips down John’s spine, he watched how John’s skin erupted into gooseflesh.

 

Sherlock walked over to one of the tables and squeezed a generous amount of lube into his palm, stroking his cock with the full amount. Then he took some more and walked back to John, parting his cheeks without any preamble. He could hear John take a sharp breath, and he could see him balancing precariously on his toes, his legs spread wide by the bar.

 

Sherlock circled John’s hole a few times before pushing his middle finger in to the second knuckle. John gave a quiet gasp, arching his back. Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was trying to arch into his touch, or away from it. Whichever it was, Sherlock loved it.

 

“I remember how your throat tightened around my cock,” Sherlock said, working John’s hole while he talked. “how your tongue worked so beautifully against it, giving me more pleasure than I’d ever felt before. And you know, you were so pretty because throughout the whole thing, you didn’t give in; you fought, all the way, and you have _kept_ fighting. That’s what I love about you, John; you never disappoint. Such a little danger slut. Aren’t you happy you were wrongfully convicted, and fell into my hands?”

 

“Shut up,” John said, his voice low and angry, and perhaps even a little hurt. Sherlock moved his fingers inside of John, and then pulled them out and lined himself up. “Admit it, John. You want me to make you feel good.”

 

Sherlock pushed in in one quick thrust, and John groaned, and then sobbed brokenly. “You’ll never stop, will you.” John’s voice broke, and Sherlock noted that it wasn’t really a question, but an observation. He decided to answer nonetheless.

 

“That’s absolutely correct, John.” He nibbled at John’s nape, moving his cock back and thrusting back in with fervor, his hands on John’s hips. John fell forward in his chains, and gasped softly, barely audible. “S-so I might as well enjoy it, is that what you’re saying?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened fractionally, as he moved inside John. “Yes... that is, if I want to pleasure you, of course the possibility of it actually happening would increase if you were to ask for it.”

 

The muscles in John’s body were always moving, tensing, and relaxing. John was thinking, that much was clear.

 

“Please.”

 

It was so low Sherlock almost didn’t hear it.

  
“What was that, John?” Sherlock asked, deeply seated inside of John, circling his hips, making sure to graze over John’s prostate with each movement.

 

“Please… please. I want to… come.” John swallowed a moan. Sherlock could see the flush spread across his face and chest, and he could have sworn that he smelled the embarrassment radiating off of him.

 

“Your wish is my command…” Sherlock said, smiling against his skin. “Only in this situation, of course.”

 

Reaching around to take a hold of John’s cock, which was already half hard again, he whispered into John’s ear. “Get ready for a wild ride, John.” And John did, his head hanging low. He didn’t hold back moans, whimpers and pleas as Sherlock fucked him. Chains were rattling, and the sounds that echoed in the room were, simply, pornographic.

 

“ _Fuuuuck!_ ” John cried, spilling into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock came only moments after, gripping John’s body tight against his own, feeling every fibre of his being alight with an all-consuming fire. Sherlock rested his forehead between John’s shoulder blades.

 

“Thank you, John,” he murmured.

 

Breathing hard, John didn’t respond.

 


	6. Breaking Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SO SO SO SOSOSOSOSOSO SOSOSOOSAHSDFJKAHEWJSKF SO FUCKING SORRY THAT THIS TOOK LIKE LITERALLY ALMOST A YEAR. I CANNOT DESCRIBE HOW SORRY I AM AND I KNOW THAT PROBABLY NONE OF YOU ARE STILL AROUND TO READ THIS NEXT CHAPTER BUT..... I THOUGHT I'D SHARE IT ANYWAY. Because I have had it ready for a few months now, but I don't have a beta.... ^^;;;;;;; So... yeah. PLEASE FORGIVE ME, DON'T KILL ME AND NOW  
> ENJOY THE SHITTY SIXTH CHAPTER OF THIS FUCKED UP FIC. 
> 
> (in preparation for tonight lmao let's all hope John gets screwed. (not like in my fic but as in like... you know...... you know. XD))
> 
> ENJOY! <3

John wasn’t used to not waking up in his cell at the slave house. It took him a moment to remember where he actually was, lying on an actual bed, in an actual room, in an actual house.

Yet it was not his own. He threw the covers back and slowly sat up on the edge of the bed. He looked down at his knees, breathing deeply. His brain did its best to work against him and remind him of what had happened the night before. After Sherlock had taken him along, into his house, into his home. 

He shook his head to rid himself of the thought, and got up, out of bed to go to the bathroom. At least he could move somewhat freely now. He wasn’t always trapped with a pair of padded cuffs which was a good change. 

On the other hand, now being under constant scrutiny and supervision by  _ him, _ made his skin crawl with unease. He glanced quickly at himself in the mirror, not wanting to stare at the collar longer than was needed. 

There were dark circles underneath his eyes. Furrowing his brow, he turned the knob on the sink, letting icy cold water run over his fingers. He washed his face, doing his best to avoid his own reflection, feeling like it was someone else that was staring back. He dried himself off and went back to the living area. 

What was he to do now?

There wasn’t much at all that he could keep himself busy with. He didn’t want to eat, he felt vaguely nauseous, and the bowl of fruit only reminded him of last night… which again, was something he didn’t want to even remotely turn his mind to. 

 

He had broken all the pens in his attempt to get the muzzle off, so there was nothing to write with either, otherwise he might have written a letter of complaint to his… his… well. What was he?

  
He grudgingly admitted to himself that Sherlock was his owner now. At least for the moment. Swallowing thickly he sat back down on the bed and cast a look around. His eyes fell on the wall that had opened up a door into that dreadful experience of last night.

 

His fingers wandered up to trace the edge of the seamless collar. Wondering how Sherlock had gotten hold of that kind of technology, he lay back on the bed. 

Sherlock had done him the kindness of letting him wear briefs, but otherwise John was naked. A shiver ran up his body. He wished for more clothes, even though he had been virtually naked for the past few weeks. Apparently, one got used to clothes much more quickly than being naked.

 

Thoughts of where he would be now, if he hadn’t killed Sebastian and ended up as a slave, came into his mind. John couldn’t really say. He might be dead. Or he would still be fighting in a war for which there was no end in sight anytime soon. 

And the most depressing thought was, that either of those possibilities appealed to John more than being where he was right now.

His eyes were fixed on a spot on the ceiling when the door opened. 

 

In a second his body sprung into action and he was sitting up straight, his back pressed up against the headboard of the bed, his gaze fixed on the person entering his room. It took him a moment to release the tension again, when it dawned on him that it was Mrs Hudson. 

 

She was carrying a tray with food on it. Breakfast, looking at the time of day.   
  


“Hoohoo!” She smiled at John, not seeming in any way shocked or surprised to see him in such a state of undress. 

  
“Here’s some tea for you, dearie! Tea and some toast and jam and sausages.” She walked over to the table and placed the tray on it, a flicker of confusion dancing across her lovely features as she looked at all the broken pens scattered on the surface and on the floor.

 

She stepped back and smiled at him again, stroking her dress flat. 

“Well! Have at it dearie. You look like you could use some strengthening.” Then, there was a falter in her kind expression. Turning straight back around, she left the room without saying another word. 

 

John hadn't uttered a word in Mrs Hudson’s presence. He pulled his eyes away from the door and let his gaze settle on the tray with the food. As much as he hated to admit it, he was starving.

 

He slowly got up from the bed and walked over to the table, the food smelled amazing, and looked delicious. 

Licking his lips he pulled back the chair and seated himself, to his surprise there was a set of cutlery beside the plate, along with a napkin.

 

Another grumble of his stomach and John was pulled out of his roaming thoughts, and picked up fork and knife and dug in. Everything was cooked to perfection, incomparable to the prison food that he’d been fed for the past few weeks, or the army food for that matter.

 

When he was done with eating, he picked up the napkin to clean his mouth from any crumbs that might have strayed from his mouth.

Old habits die hard. 

 

As he unfolded it, something written appeared on the inside. His brow furrowed and his look darkened as he took in the words that were adorning the white fabric. 

 

**“Do not eat the food, it’s drugged!”**

 

John dropped the napkin and stumbled out of the chair, taking panicked breaths.

 

So even now Sherlock wouldn't be straight forward with him. John held a hand in front of his mouth, and made a miserable sound of defeat. John knew that soon he would get drowsy, and eventually would pass out. This was different from being drugged by a syringe being emptied directly into your bloodstream. This came slow, and now that John knew about it, the apprehension was all the more sizeable. 

 

His thoughts were running wild. Should he go and make himself throw up? 

Too late, the drug was already permeating his system. The first wave of dizziness and slight nausea rolled over him like a forceful blow. 

His feet weren't keeping up with his racing thoughts, he stumbled, taking hold of the edge of the table.

The doctor inside him shouted for him to lie down instead of endangering himself of falling when he fell unconscious and actually hurting himself. 

Forcing himself to keep standing and not letting his eyes close, he made for the bed, barely making it.

He collapsed onto it and with his last strength he rolled over onto his back.

It was like his mind was starting to get smothered in cotton, slowly dulling everything around him.

 

The door opened and John struggled to keep his eyes from shutting. In strolled Sherlock, hands behind his back. He leaned over John’s slowly stilling form and tutted. 

 

“I underestimated Mrs Hudson. But seeing that I knew you wouldn't use the napkin till the end, based on the data from last night’s dinner, I didn't stop her from putting the message in there.”

 

Long fingers reached out and carressed John’s cheek, they were so gentle, John could barely believe it. Swallowing best he could, he kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock. 

 

And then his eyelids fell, heavy, and pulled a blanket of darkness down with them. 

 

-

 

Waking with a jolt, eyes wide suddenly, John tried to take in everything at once. 

He was kneeling, that’s the first thing he noticed. For a second he thought he wasn't tied up, because his arms were in his front, but when he looked down, he saw that he was wearing some sort of a straitjacket, his arms crossed in front, but being pulled to the pack where the ends were most likely tied. The thing that was different about this straitjacket was that his chest was left naked, his nipples just above his crossed arms, uncomfortably accessible.

 

He was wearing the muzzle once more, he could feel the edges push against the bridge of his nose and his jaw. The damned thing. 

 

What made him most uncomfortable though was that he could feel something inside him, shifting ever so slightly. And apparently it was connected to his cock. Looking down at himself he could see that his cock was encased with something see-through. The thing was connected to a sort of harness that spanned around his hip, and at his side there was a small lock.

 

He realized what it was, and there was a sharp intake of breath. A chastity device. He was breathing far too quickly, starting to feel lightheaded.

 

Finally he looked up, and there he sat, that smug bastard, at a desk, his elbow set on the tabletop with the hand resting on his chin. 

 

Gazing unperturbedly at John, like there was nothing the matter. 

 

“You cock!”, John growled, at which Sherlock grinned slightly, just as John was about to try and get his legs under him so he could get up and kick the living hell out of the dark haired bastard, said bastard spoke.

 

“Don't even try, John. You were only held upright by a chain that is attached to the back of your jacket, alas you won't get far anyway.”

 

John closed his eyes to control his anger. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the words out: “Couldn't just be upfront, could you. Do you enjoy seeing me drugged or-” 

“Infact I do”, Sherlock cut him off. 

 

John’s mouth was left open and gaping like a fish’s. 

 

“I enjoy seeing you all quiet and lovely like that, just like the calm before the storm.” He smiled.

 

John huffed and looked off to the side, mentally readying himself for what might come. But nothing happened. Instead, when he looked back up at his owner, he was typing away at a laptop, seemingly having forgotten about John. 

 

Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as John had thought. So John just settled for looking at Sherlock and studying, something he now realized he never had had the time or the nerve to do. 

 

From an objective point of view one would think Sherlock attractive, with the dark curls, the long limbs and digits, the sharp angles of his face and the piercing eyes, and his clear sense for fashion would have made any woman gawk, and quite a few men as well, be it out of adoration or jealousy. 

 

Seeing that John had a hard time staying objective though, all that he could think about was how horrible that man was.

 

John’s hateful thoughts were cut short when Sherlock spoke again: “See I knew you could be quiet even without a gag, if one just let you be for a while.”

 

He said it without even looking up. 

 

John sneered: “Yes you’re right, not raping someone for a change will do wonders.”

 

That made Sherlock look up, and pout. He actually pouted. 

He swivelled around in his chair and said: “Well you got to come twice, that's more than most slaves get.” 

That statement left John speechless. Did Sherlock really think of himself as kind?

 

He was just about to voice his disgust when Sherlock shushed him. John would have done the opposite hadn't the plug that was deeply seated inside of him suddenly sprang to life.

Just like the collar around his neck. But both sensations were very much different.

 

The plug was vibrating against his prostate, making him gasp with pleasure, and the collar was sending out small shock waves, making him gasp with pain. When the episode ended, John’s head was left pulsing with confusing feelings. 

When there was another jolt of pain coming from his cock, he gave a short shout of surprise. He looked down to see that his cock was swelling, but due to the plastic casing around it, it couldn't, thus the resulting pain. 

 

He was breathing hard, trying to concentrate on making his erection flag again. Finally, everything was calming down again, his breathing slowed, and everything stopped hurting, the cycle began anew. 

 

Pulling desperately on his arms to try and free them, he was huffing through the pleasure-pain. Though if he had been able to free them he didn't know which of his torture devices he would attempt to get off his body first. 

 

Soon he was a sobbing and shaking mess. He was ready to beg as soon as he would have enough time and air to speak.

 

Finally, finally the torture stopped, and John was gasping for air, the sweat dripping off his face and thighs. 

 

The madman’s eyes were once again focused on John alone. 

Just as the bound ex-soldier wanted to speak, there was a knock on the door. Swallowing thickly John stared at the door, not wanting anyone else seeing him in such a state of shame.

 

Sherlock’s voice rang clear and deep: “Come in.”

John braced himself for Mrs Hudson’s entry, but someone entirely else did come in, another face that John knew, but hated just as much as Sherlock’s.

If not even more. 

 

The redhead. The man that had made John grateful to see Sherlock. John recoiled, eyes wide.

 

He barely even heard himself breathe the word: “No!”

 

Mycroft’s eyes were roaming over John’s bound form: “Hello brother mine, I see you’ve made Dr Watson a nice home.”

 

At the word “brother” John’s head span around to look at Sherlock. He couldn't believe it, was it true? Was this abominable man Sherlock’s brother?

 

Sherlock sneered. “What do  _ you  _ want?” His gaze was smoldering. Apparently, he liked his brother as little as John did. 

 

Mycroft visibly forced himself to tear his eyes off of John to look at his sibling. 

“I know the deal was that if I made it easy to get him out of the slave house you’d help me with some of my… More difficult problems with the governmental duties.” 

 

He paused to raise his chin and adjust his hands on the handle of the umbrella, which he then leant against the wall.

 

John’s mind was reeling. Deal? What kind of a deal?

 

“Yes, but as I already said, you went further than we agreed, I did not allow you to touch him.”

 

John’s stomach dropped. Sherlock had made him vulnerable, scared out of his mind, just so he would be more pliable. His heart ached, and he reprimanded himself for having been so stupid to think that Sherlock “saved” him.

 

“Yes. Yes I know and I apologize. But wouldn't you say this”, he gestured to his black eye, which was slowly changing colours into greens and yellows, “was enough retribution for that?”

 

Sherlock sniffed but stayed silent.

 

“Anyway, I thought I’d make you another offer. I have thought long and hard about this, and I’ve decided I want to fuck him.”

 

Such a vulgar word out of this man’s mouth made John blink. And the hand that was gesturing towards his direction made his insides turn to ash.

Sherlock wouldn't.

If he had given his brother a black eye for what he’d done to John, he certainly wouldn't let this happen, would he?

 

Sherlock glanced at John. Then he spoke: “Go on. This better be good or I’ll make sure you leave with another black eye, just because I want to.”

 

John’s breath was gone. He couldn't believe this. These two men were actually dealing over his body, over what one got in return to rape him. Nausea overcame him. 

 

“I would let you off the hook for those tasks I wanted to get your help with.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but he didn't let on if he was amiable to the suggestion or not. 

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes: “And I’ll make sure to have the MET drop those drug charges against you, so you can go back and consult on cases again more frequently. Without any restrictions.”

 

Pondering over the offer for a minute, Sherlock leant back in his chair. 

 

Then he spoke abruptly. “Fine. You can fuck him. But I will stay present throughout and you only come once.”

 

John broke his silence: “What the fuck is wrong with you people? You can't just-”

 

“Shock.”

 

Jaw locking, eyes wide, John doubled over as far as he could as the pain ricocheted through his body. Mortified John realized through the haze of pain that his cock responded to the shock and tried to stand erect once again. 

 

When the shocks stopped, John was breathing hard, tears welling up in his eyes. 

 

Mycroft had a pleased smirk on his face. 

 

“I much prefer you when you’re reasonable, Sherlock.” 

 

John felt so violated already. He watched with rising terror how Mycroft took off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. 

 

Sherlock stood, and walked over to John. He unhooked the chain from the straitjacket and pulled John up by his arm. Soon John found himself face first bent over the desk.

Another chain was hooked into one of the many rings on the jacket and tethered to the desk so John couldn’t lift his chest off even a millimeter. 

 

His legs were spread and each ankle tied off to a ring in the floor. 

John knew it was no use to fight, even though his mind was turning over and over, trying to find a way out, he suppressed it, and forced his tongue to stick to the roof of his mouth. Any venom he could and would want to spit was no use. He closed his eyes and tried to forget that he was being openly presented to a man who had tried to rape him before. And now the man who was actually supposed to protect him, gave him away so freely. He couldn’t and didn’t want to believe it. He swallowed thickly, wiggling his arms a bit underneath his chest a bit, feeling them going numb already.

This wasn’t the first time he was raped. He had gotten through the last time, and the time before that. He could and would survive.

He forced himself into that headspace he only went to when he had been taken captive in Afghanistan, and was readying himself for torture. His breathing evened out, and his mind went blank. The tears on his face were just a reflex.

He could do this.

He could do this.

_ He could do this. _

There were voices around him, but through his haze of self-preservation he barely registered them. There was something cold on his arsehole, lube.

Long warm fingers spreading his arse-cheeks.

A tip dipping in, stretching him.

A chuckle. Soft, gentle touches to the small of his back.

“Don’t you fall asleep on me, soldier.” He heard the warm voice of his major in his ear, felt his hot breath on his nape, and the finger wiggling deliciously in his arse.

 

John gave a short chuckle. “But I’m tired.” Head lolling on his forearms he smiled into the dark of the tent. Teasing James was fun, and John didn’t get to do it too often, so he grabbed the opportunity. The finger inside him stopped for a second, the pushed in all the way, and left John gasping.

“You won’t be tired soon, believe me, Watson. I’ll see to that.” He felt the Major’s teeth nibbling at his left shoulder. John hummed and wiggled his arse approvingly. “Prove it, old man.” He felt a short breath of laughter on his back before there was movement. Soon there was a second finger probing at the tight ring of muscles. John bit his lip to keep from shouting at the wonderful feeling. “God yes.” His heart was starting to beat faster, he loved this, the feeling of James behind him, doing what he did best, teasing John, opening him up.

 

John would take this relationship to his grave, he would never tell anyone what had happened between him and Sholto. Never.

But as it was, he enjoyed it, and loved every second. That was before… before…

John’s mind was starting to break. No.

No.

**_NO!_ **

He wouldn’t let it wander. Get back to Sholto.

It didn’t take long for James to open him up, John knew that he was receptive, and he wanted it so bad. He couldn’t wait. This was their escape from the real world. Their way of coping with everything that was happening outside of that camp.

This was their way of comforting each other, and it worked wonders.

John gave a sigh of loss when James pulled his fingers out. “Come on James, give it to me.” He looked over his shoulder and gave his Major his most seductive eyes, smirking broadly. He saw that glimmer in the other man’s eyes, that hunger, that lust and that want.

He grinned back and said in his most commanding tone: “I’m still the one in charge here, Watson. And that’s Major, for you.”

John wiggled his arse, achingly hard against the cot beneath. “Sir, yes, sir.”

That must’ve done it, because James swallowed thickly, grabbing the bottle of lube to get his length nice and slick before pulling one of John’s cheeks to the side, and pressing the head of his cock against the fluttering pucker.

John turned his head to the front again, closing his eyes, biting his lip. His breaths were coming in quick bursts now. He needed this, he wanted it so badly.

Finally, the pressure against his hole started to build, and the head slowly entered John’s willing body.

John pushed his hips upwards, giving James a much better angle to get inside him. Slowly, excruciatingly, he kept pushing deeper, and John was squirming, biting his forearm with the anticipation. Now this was punishment for his sharp tongue. James was one to have self-restraint like none other. And he used it to make John suffer and beg and plead. When he was finally seated up to the hilt inside John he took a moment to breathe, and circle his hips, leaving John groaning. Suddenly, there was a hand in his hair, first softly touching, petting his hair, and then, out of nowhere his head was being pulled back, and John gasped with the pain and the shock.

This wasn’t like James at all. But John wasn’t one to be opposed to some rough sex. John chuckled low in his throat, pushing his arse back against Sholto, moving his hips up and down, trying to entice him to finally fuck him.

“Sir, would you please fuck me?” He could feel his adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. “Not because you’re asking, Watson.”

The cock inside John finally moved, slowly pulling back, and then suddenly snapping back in. James set a hard and punishing pace, the fist still holding onto John’s hair. John’s hands were wrapped tightly around the sides of the cot, gripping tightly as James fucked him ruthlessly. James’ other hand was suddenly on his hip, pulling John up onto his knees.

This cot was surprisingly sturdy. John did his best to keep in his moans as he was being fucked into oblivion.

He heard grunting behind him, groaning and moaning, mixing with the slapping of flesh against flesh.

“Hnnnnnn… Look at you taking my cock so well… I envy Sherlock… F-fuck! I truly do.”

 

John’s eyes snapped wide open. The tent was gone, so was the cot. He was right back where he had been trying to escape from.

 

It was Sherlock’s brother who was fucking him, not his old Major from the army. John was breathing hard, trying to balance on the balls of his feet as Mycroft was plunging in and out of his body, thrusting hard. The fist in his hair was pulling painfully.

 

John closed his eyes again, feeling how the tears returned, making his eyes burn. His fingers were curling underneath his body, he was trying his best not to sob. That made up memory had been so much better than this.

 

As the man behind him fucked him hard and fast, making John feel nauseous, he opened his eyes again, to look over to Sherlock who was observing the whole thing. But instead of watching his brother fuck John, his gaze was concentrated on John’s face. His eyes were dark, and John swallowed.

 

He barely registered how Mycroft’s hips stuttered and he groaned and came hot and deep inside John. He finally let go of John’s hair. John dropped his face on the table, the muzzle fogging up with his hot breath and cutting into the side of his face. 

 

The man behind him finally pulled out, leaving John’s arse dripping with come. He could hear the rustle of clothes behind him, the sound of a zipper. 

 

There was a contented sigh before Mycroft spoke again: “Thank you brother dear. I truly appreciate it.” There was a pause and John was sure that the man was eyeing his open legs once more. “I will now go and take care of my end of the deal.” John couldn’t look at him. He was still breathing hard, just lying there, tired, wanting to go to sleep, to just rest. 

 

He heard the door go. Thank god. That bastard was finally gone. Sherlock walked around the table, just standing behind John for a second. John could feel his eyes on his arse.

 

Then he could feel how Sherlock was untying his feet from the floor. And then the chain on the front, he helped John stand on shaking legs. 

 

His knees felt week.

He avoided Sherlock’s gaze, too tired to glare or show any sign of defiance.

 

Sherlock looked at John’s weary face searchingly and then spoke: “You lied to me back in the slave house. You had been fucked before.”

 

John swallowed hard, not denying it, but knowing full well that this revelation was going to bring a whole different level of hell down on his already cracked head. 

And he was anything but ready.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think of this atrocity. ^^;;;; 
> 
> Also if you want to see shitty art, both sfw and nsfw  
> Follow me on tumblr: http://purrlockholmes.tumblr.com/  
> and http://jaspurrlock.tumblr.com/
> 
> I actually made an art of John gagged in various ways so... there you go: http://jaspurrlock.tumblr.com/post/155414294522/gagging-for-it#notes  
> (some of these were inspired by this fic) <3
> 
> also if you're interested in betaing this fic for me (if i manage to come up with a 7th chapter, let me know in the comments!! <3)

**Author's Note:**

> So let me know in the comments what you think. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. :D
> 
> I apologize for my perverted mind.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Gagging for it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9248993) by [purrlockholmes (stilesstilerstyle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilesstilerstyle/pseuds/purrlockholmes)




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